


A Ghost Here Amongst the Living

by extra_credit, winterkill



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Additional Tags to Be Added, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brienne and Sansa's buddy cop dynamic, But not any of the mains!, Cersei does cocaine for the ghosts in her blood, Character Death, Drug Use, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Features Casterly Rock as a decaying manor by the sea, Hurt/Comfort, Jaime Lannister's strong little spoon energy, Melisandre and Thoros are cultists who want to perform an exorcism, Minor Tyrion Lannister/Shae, Past Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Past Child Abuse, Psychological Trauma, Sandor is a grumpy groundsman, Sibling Incest, Smut, The Lannister children and their terrible coping mechanisms, Tommen and Myrcella are creepy twins!, Tywin Lannister's A+ Parenting, ghost story, victorian gothic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-01-15 05:34:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 77,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21248282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extra_credit/pseuds/extra_credit, https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterkill/pseuds/winterkill
Summary: "There’s a presence in the house--the children feel it, too, since a fortnight ago," the letter starts, written in his father’s tight handwriting. Even the shape of the letters are imbued with his disposition. Jaime can almost feel the man’s unyielding gaze on the back of his head. "I dream of your mother, as of late, and when I do, she looks at me with disappointment, and asks if her children are happy."Tywin Lannister's death forces his three estranged children to return to Casterly Rock and confront the ghosts of their shared past. They're joined by skeptical City Watch constable Brienne of Tarth, and her assistant Sansa Stark, who just wants to see a real ghost.





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is a team effort! The prose and fluffy bits are mine, but I could _never_ plot a narrative like this out alone. 
> 
> I wouldn't call this a dark fic, but it deals with child neglect/abuse, the nature of which will be obvious quickly. It borrows a plot element from _Flowers in the Attic_ by V.C. Andrews. Tywin is like the worst villain in a Charles Dickens novel. None of it occurs in the fic itself, barring a few flashbacks, but the lingering trauma is a huge part of the narrative. There's also some drug and alcohol use, mostly from Cersei.
> 
> I left some things untagged for spoiler reasons, but will update as needed.
> 
> It's still fluffy, and funny, and eventually smutty! And features Tyrion/Sansa, which is new for me.
> 
> For turning my random ideas for scenes into a narrative, my co-creator deserves space in the notes, so:
> 
> When winterkill first approached me saying “I want to write a Victorian Gothic _Flowers in the Attic_ AU,” My initial response was “that just sounds like _Crimson Peak._” But I promised to think about it, and, as is my wont, I got totally carried away. In an attempt to avoid just rewriting _Crimson Peak_ but with Lannisters, I dug deep to my days as a literature major and relied pretty heavily on Henry James’ _The Turn of the Screw_, which is set in a classic Gothic remote manor on a moor. What really drew me to this work was the unreliability of the governess, who is the only source of paranormal sightings. Happy Halloween; I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Fic title comes from the song "Third Eye" by Florence and the Machine. I'm tossing the prologue and chapter one up at once because they should be read together. Enjoy the prologue, filled Tywin's increasingly paranoid journal entries!

_ I find myself dreaming of Joanna as of late. _

_ It began a fortnight past, on Tyrion’s nameday--the day of her death. All these long years later, I still ask myself why the gods gave me such a child in place of my wife. Sending him away with the most significant sum I could afford is the only respite I’m offered. _

_ Nevertheless, he runs amok, spending the money on whoring and drinking tarnishing the Lannister name. _

_ My dream was acutely lucid; the smell of Joanna’s perfume on the day of our wedding feast, her arm in mine touring through the gardens. She exists, now, only in memory--even the painting of her above the mantle in my study doesn’t contain her true likeness. _

_ Before the dream, I would close my eyes and try and remember her voice. Now, for the first time in two decades, I can recall it. _

_ Casterly Rock continues to fall into disrepair--I’ve sent everyone away in an effort to keep Myrcella and Tommen a secret. The lack of staff has taken its toll on the manor. When Joanna and I were children, there were enough servants to keep everything maintained--not like the sprawling, ill-kempt mess the Casterly Rock has become. We’ve only a handful of servants now, the children’s governess, and one gardener. _

_ Shae does her best to keep the children from my sight, but they are wily things and slip from her care. They creep through the house like spectres, aided by the fact that most of the manor stands dormant. _

_ Just last week, I entered my study to find the two of them holding hands and staring at the painting of Joanna. Shae insists on dressing them in coordinating clothes, just as my Joanna used to do with Jaime and Cersei. _

_ From behind, standing before Joanna's portrait, they look identical. _

_ “Is she our mother?” Myrcella asked. _

_ “Her hair is as ours,” Tommen added. _

_ A shiver passed through me at their words, like cold fingers trailing along the back of my neck. _

_ "She is not," I answered, wishing Shae would come and take them away. I care not where, as long as they don't leave the manor. _

_ "Then who?" Myrcella insisted, but I yelled at them sternly, and they scurried from the room. _

_ I’ve never told them the truth of their parentage. There’s nothing but Lannister in the both of them--golden curls and green eyes. Myrcella looks like Cersei did at her age, and both of them look like Joanna. To look upon them is to feel mocked--all three of my children are lost to me, and I’m left with grandchildren that must be kept hidden in this manor as we all are left to rot. _

_ Thrice, I have written to Jaime in King’s Landing, summoning him home and received no reply. I’ve even conceded that he could see Myrcella and Tommen if he resumed his place as my heir. Cersei’s marriage King Robert should have produced heirs for both the iron throne and Casterly Rock, but she seems to be only capable of creating abominations born of incest. _

* * *

_ Shae reports that the children claim to have seen a ghost or a spectre of some sort, and to have heard strange noises throughout the house. I told her that Casterly Rock has stood for centuries, and that old houses make noise. _

_ She knows not to pester me with their ramblings, but she insisted that it’s been occurring frequently, and that the children are frightened. They have asked to sleep together, and Shae allowed it. I tried to hold my tongue; reacting too strongly would arouse suspicion, but I told her I forbade it in the future. _

_ I will not have the cycle repeat itself. _

* * *

_ I found them in my study again, staring at the painting of Joanna. _

_ “Have you lost Shae again?” I asked. _

_ Even looking at the back of their heads is painful--what did I do to deserve having to care for them? And yet, they are blameless--a product of the sins of my children. A burden I can’t even pass on for the shame it would bring our house. So, keep them here I must. _

_ “She’s our grandmother,” Tommen pointed at the painting. _

_ “How do you know that?” _

_ “She told us_.”

_ They looked up at me with their matching green eyes, and a chill swept over the room. _

_ Even now, hours later, their response haunts me. How could they have known that? Did Shae tell them? _

* * *

_ The odd sightings continue. _

_ Thrice, the children claimed to see a creature scuttling around while Shae was attending them in the back gardens. The garden is a rambling thing--overgrown with nature reclaiming it. Shae told them it was certainly a raccoon, or even a fox, but Tommen insists otherwise. He found a book in the library of all the animals in the Westerlands and says what he saw isn’t amongst them. _

_ “A child’s imagination,” I told Shae. _

_ “Perhaps, my lord, but frightening to him nonetheless.” _

_ Tommen drew the thing--Shae handed it to me, as though I’d be interested in the drawings of a child. When I was Tommen’s age, I certainly didn’t draw and play in the garden. The drawing is crude; the creature is small, and hairless, with a gaping mawl and pointed teeth, and doesn’t resemble anything. _

_ I’ve no more time to waste on the fancies of children, so I sent Shae away and told her not to speak to me of it again. _

* * *

_ I dreamed of Joanna again--she spoke to me, this time, although I remember not what she said. The expression on her face was one I recognized, though, eyes downcast and brow furrowed-- the Joanna in my dream was disappointed in me. It was the expression she graced me with whenever I was too strict with Jaime, forcing him to sit with his studies instead of letting him train in the yard with a sword or horses. _

_ A first-born son should be strong, a pillar and an example for the rest of the family to emulate. My father was never that; he was weak, and never earned the respect of those he ruled. When I came into my lordship of Casterly Rock, our coffers and reputation were so sullied it took years to undo my father’s mistakes. _

_ “Jaime is my heir,” I would always say. _

_ “He’s just a boy, let him be one,” Joanna would admonish, but I never relented. _

_ I tried to ask her what I’d done, but she only shook her head, sadly, and the dream ended. _

* * *

_ I feel as though I’m being followed. _

_ Three nights ago after dinner, as I moved from the dining room back to my study, I sensed a presence behind me. Strange, given that I dined alone, as I always do. Shae was with the children in their rooms, and assured me she didn’t lose track of them. It would be like them, to trail behind me and slink into a doorway when I turned to look. _

_ I caught sight of my reflection in one of the darkened windows in the hall--it gave me pause. I am the head of House Lannister, but all I could see was my father, as I remember him from my youth. All I’ve done was in service my ambition to leave my house better than I came into it, but I am alone, and every plan I’ve laid for my children has failed. _

_ As I reviewed my appearance, lost in thought, a spectral silhouette appeared in the blackness, and the air around me turned cold. The sight was gone the instant I blinked, but I am convinced it was in the shape of a woman. _

_ The image appeared to me four more times in the intervening days--sometimes a flash of it in a darkened window, like the first night, but sometimes I swear I see the silhouette though a crack in an open door, or even out of the corner of my eye. _

_ Sleep eludes me but for scraps of time, and whenever my eyes fall shut, Joanna waits for me. _

_ “What has become of my children?” she asks. _

_ “Your daughter is a queen, and your son a knight.” _

_ “And what of the third; the son I died so he could live?” _

_ “Nothing. He’s a drunkard and a whoremonger.” _

_ “Your dreams for Jaime and Cersei came to fruition,” Joanna’s gaze looked straight through me; she always saw the truth, “but they’re not the boon you’d hoped.” _

_ “I wanted security for them. Respect. To never be mocked like my own father was.” _

_ She smiles, but there is no joy in it. “For them to be lions of Casterly Rock, beholden to no one and beyond reproach.” _

_ “Everything I did was in service to that.” _

_ She looked at me, thoughtful, “But they hold no love for you, my husband.” _

_ Then, I awoke. _

* * *

_ The few servants that are left have started to notice that something is amiss. Shae, in particular, inquired after my health earlier today. I must appear haggard, and my routine has been disrupted by my perpetual exhaustion. I struggle to eat the meals served to me, and sleep becomes ever more elusive. _

_ The spectre is Joanna, or at least that’s what I’ve come to believe. It’s been a sennight, and I feel her presence in every room I occupy. She doesn’t speak, only floats through the rooms of the manor, the space that she used to occupy when she lived. We were both born in this house, for all that it mattered. _

_ The spirit doesn’t seem angry or vengeful--no, Joanna, if it is indeed her, is as she appears in my dreams--disappointed. _

_ I feel her strongest in the lord’s chambers, the bed where she birthed Tyrion, and where she died. I can scarcely enter the room lest grief consume me. I can see her there on the bed, asking to hold Tyrion as the life left her. _

_ Life left this house, too, then; Joanna was resplendent, and everything dimmed in the wake of her absence. Then, I shuttered everything, and kept my children cloistered here. Safe. Secure. _

_ Her last words to me were, “Take care of them.” _

_ Is that not what I have done? _

* * *

_ Joanna is not the only specter to grace Casterly Rock. Where the images are real, or a product of my mind, I cannot say. I’m uncertain why I’m even recording the happenings at this point; perhaps writing them down makes the events feel more corporeal. _

_ Tonight, I heard a mournful wailing sound from outside the window in the first-floor parlor. I thought it was the wind, at first--the weather on the Sunset Sea can be unpredictable, and there’s no end to the discomfiting noises this ancient house makes, especially now that so much of it stands empty. _

_ The noise continued, and almost felt as if it was calling to me---a foolish notion, or so I thought. It was nearing midnight as I trailed the noise through the yard, with only a lantern to light my path. _

_ I saw the creature with my own eyes this time, behind a hedgerow near the perimeter of the garden. Tommen’s description was accurate--although I can scarcely believe what I saw to document it here. The thing was small, about the size of an infant, and hairless. _

_ And, oh, the wailing of it--a sound that I felt deep in my bones, as if the creature was crying _ at _ me. It didn’t stir, but kept keening, and the sound echoed around the garden until I couldn’t abide it anymore, and I returned to the house, shaken. _

_ I knew, then, although I can’t say how with any confidence, who the creature was. Cersei’s sobs haunt me still. A secret like that could ruin us, and there are so many secrets already. _

* * *

_ Joanna is my constant companion, now, and I hear the wailing from the yard nightly, although I haven’t gone to search for the creature again. The sight of it was too horrifying--I see it when I close my eyes. _

_ “Grandmother is sad,” Tommen told me, “Why is she so sad if she’s dead?” _

_ Because of my choices, but I didn’t tell the boy that. I’ve been reflecting, lately, about the choices I made for this family after Joanna’s passing. The ghost doesn’t approve, and every sight of her adds a layer to my guilt. I was so confident. _

_ I’m so tired, now. _

_ I wrote to Jaime today, begging him to return home, asking him to bring Cersei, and even Tyrion if he can locate him. I would have all three of them before me again, one last time. I know not what I’ll say to them--perhaps I’ll try and explain myself, and my choices. _

_ In the letter, I told him everything--about Joanna and her disappointment, about what she would have wanted for her children. I told him about the creature in the yard and it’s wailing, and about Tommen and Myrcella knowing things I’ve not made them privy to. _

_ Maybe he will answer me, this time, and come home. _

* * *

Tywin Lannister sent many letters to Jaime over the years. As an ever-dutiful firstborn son, Jaime keeps them--a small bundle shoved in the bottom dresser of a bureau. Some of them he’s even opened, and even fewer has he read. His father’s letters are stern commands--_ you disgrace our name_, _ know your place_, _ you’re my heir_.

In the last letter Jaime _ had _ opened, Tywin had offered to let him see Tommen and Myrcella, as long as they were kept confined to the grounds. A token gesture--Jaime can glimpse them, but Tywin will never let them go. 

It’s his brand of protection, the captivity, the hiding of sins. 

There’s two letters gracing his desk today, though, and one is the last letter he’ll ever receive from his father--his _ late _ father. Had the two letters not arrived in tandem, Jaime might have sent it directly to the buried bundle, unread. Why he even _ keeps _ them is a mystery he couldn’t explain if asked.

_ Two _ letters in the same day felt like they portend something important, so Jaime deigned to read them. Even the order he opened them in feels destined. The first letter is from his uncle, Kevan, stating that Tywin was found dead in his study at Casterly Rock. The letter, all business, talks of the portion of his father’s estate that will now pass to Jaime--the house, chiefly, and a number of business assets that are elaborated on in Tywin’s will. _ We can discuss this more in person at Casterly Rock, _ Kevan wrote.

_ The fucking house_. _ That godsdamned house. I swore I’d never set foot there again. _

In the decade since Jaime ran from Casterly Rock, to follow Cersei to King’s Landing and join the Kingsguard, he’s done his best not to dwell over much on the place of his birth. Casterly Rock is an old, sprawling manor--the seat of House Lannister since time immemorial. Jaime just has to close his eyes, and the house is there, as looming and unforgiving as Tywin Lannister was in life.

Maybe the man mirrored the house, or the house mirrored the man. It matters not; Jaime fucking hates analogies anyway.

He takes three deep breaths and stares out the window, a wispy cloud sails lazily across the blue summer sky. Then, the second letter in hand, Jaime goes to the window and pushes it open. King's Landing bustles below, alive with throngs of people. The city is _ never _ quiet--it was the first thing Jaime noticed when he arrived. At Casterly Rock, the silence was deafening, _ smothering _, and nothing could break it. Their father’s grief leeched all the life from the house.

_ Nothing in this letter can cause me harm. _ Even as his father’s last missive, it’s just _ words _ , and words are wind. His father’s _ words _aren’t why he buries himself in work, or why he seeks to leave the door open to whatever room he’s occupying, and why panic gnaws at him when he can’t. Words aren’t why Tyrion and Cersei drown themselves in hedonism and vice. They all scattered in different directions, hounded by the weight of a shared circumstance.

No, Tywin Lannister’s _ deeds _ were the root of their misfortune.

_ There’s a presence in the house--the children feel it, too, since a fortnight ago, _ the letter starts, written in his father’s tight handwriting. Even the shape of the letters are imbued with his disposition. Jaime can almost feel the man’s unyielding gaze on the back of his head. _ I dream of your mother, as of late, and when I do, she looks at me with disappointment, and asks if her children are happy. _

An utterly mirthless laugh wells up in Jaime--_happy_? The ghost of the mother he barely remembers would be the first to ask after _ any _ of them in that fashion. Hopefully his father told the truth--_no_.

The lettering becomes more erratic as Jaime reads on. _ Joanna has begun haunting my waking hours as well. I cannot undo the past, but I would bid all three of you, my children, to come home. _

Jaime nearly sends the paper sailing out the window--instead, he crumbles the letter in his hand only to smooth it out again. Tywin must have died only hours after posting it; he was probably slumped and cold on his heavy wooden desk when the letter arrived in Lannisport.

“Well, father,” he says to the room, and its perpetual emptiness, “you’ll finally get your wish.”

Jaime takes no pleasure in granting it, but neither would there be any pleasure in denying it--his father is dead, and the dead have no use for his spite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing else beyond this prologue in written in first person.


	2. there's a ghost in my lungs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is Florence again, from the song "I'm Not Calling You a Liar."

Cersei is easy to avoid, which also makes her easy to locate. She’ll be in her apartments near the center of the Red Keep, a place Jaime has easy access to and never approaches. It’s been at least a year since he’s been alone with her, only speaking to her in King Robert’s presence and when duty requires.

How far they’ve drifted since they came into the world together, wailing babes with Jaime’s hand clutching Cersei’s foot. _ Twins_, he thinks, _ two halves of a whole_, _ a mirror_. A cloudy, broken looking glass now, but even from a distance, Jaime sees _ himself _when he looks upon his twin.

_ “Trade places with me,” Cersei held her dress out in front of her. It’s emerald, and the fabric is soft when Jaime reaches out and touches it. _

_ “We’ll be scolded.” _

_ “We only were last time because Mother saw us. Even Father can’t tell us apart--your swordmaster and my sewing mistress will _ never _ be able to tell.” _

_ Jaime listened because Cersei’s ideas were usually good ones. She was more clever than Jaime, and her pranks and schemes usually went unnoticed. With their clothes swapped, they stand side-by-side before the mirror in their room. Cersei takes his hand and squeezes it. _

_ “See,” she grins mischievously, “identical.” _

_ And his sister is right--the plan does work, mostly. Cersei spends the afternoon in the yard, practice sword in hand, dressed like a boy. Jaime spies her from the window of the sitting room where he sits with an embroidery hoop in his lap. Her sword work is convincing, but his sewing skills are not. _

_ “Did you forget everything you learned while you slept last night?” the sewing mistress asked, frowning down at him. _

_ “Um,” was the only reply Jaime could conjure. _

_ Cersei handed him her sewing basket after supper that evening, “I like being you, so you’ll need to get better at this, or the game won’t be any fun. _

They’d been no more than seven, and their mother was still alive. If Tywin had _ looked _ at them, he would have seen the Cersei was leader between the two of them. If Jaime was scolded, it was because he failed in his execution of her schemes.

Jaime wonders, as he winds his way through the labyrinthine halls of the Keep, if Tywin had written anyone other than him. He can’t imagine their father, driven mad by ghosts or by guilt, dutifully penning a missive to all three of his children in equal measure. No, he's certain their father _ and _ Uncle Kevan only wrote one letter, expecting Jaime to convey the needed message to Tyrion and Cersei. The news of his death will come from Jaime’s mouth.

Cersei is reclined on a chaise when her personal guard admits him to the space. He’s the brother of the queen, and no one questions him. That power had been a boon, once upon a time. She’s dressed in scarlet, ever a Lannister, and doesn’t rise to greet him.

“_Brother_,” she says the word in a stumbling lilt, and turns her unfocused gaze onto Jaime.

How many times in their shared three decades has Cersei called him that? The layered meaning of it paralyzes him--it means brother, _ twin_, but it’s also what she’d whispered into his ear as they fumbled, quiet as ghosts, under their blankets with Tyrion sleeping the next bed over. When the two of them, _ starved_, had turned to one another and--

“Father is dead.” Jaime is quite adept a ripping himself from a thought. It’s the opposite of the childhood coping mechanism of burying himself in his imagination.

The glass of wine in Cersei’s hand drops, shatters on the floor and sends a spattering of blood red in all directions. It’s not even noon, and she’s already deep in it--Jaime can tell from the flush high on her cheeks, and the way she wobbles as she sits up. He’d spent _ years _ coping with her in all stages of intoxicated; this morning, thank the gods, it seems to be just wine. 

“_How?” _she hisses.

Jaime takes the letter out of his jacket and passes it to her. “Uncle Kevan wrote me; they found father dead in his study four nights past.”

He decides against showing her the letter from Tywin himself. Cersei had always gone to great lengths to justify Tywn Lannister’s actions in her desire to be noticed as the firstborn child, if only by minutes. Jaime _ thinks _ her begrudging respect for their father is a way to cope, and he won’t rip that from her. It’s her _ best _ coping mechanism, better than the wine or the cocaine that she uses too liberally_._

“Casterly Rock is _ yours_,” she breathes, and looks up at him, “Is he really, _ truly _\--”

“I don’t believe it," Jaime admits, "We'll walk through that _ fucking door_, and he'll be there."

Cersei is silent for a long moment, reading Uncle Kevan’s words at least twice. “We have to go,” she looks more focused now, and her eyes match his, and Jaime used to _ love _ that.

“We swore we’d never return.”

"It won't be the same," Cersei curls her fingers into fists, "We aren't powerless children now."

Sometimes, Jaime swears there's a piece of him left at Casterly Rock, something intrinsic and essential that the house took from him. Would he gain it back by returning? Or would it be another thing to haunt him?

"The estate--it's our responsibility. If we don't go, Uncle Kevan will suspect something."

“Myrcella and Tommen,” she breathes as tears well up in her eyes, “my _ children_.”

_ And mine. _

Jaime wants to cross the room and hold her, to take her into his arms like he’d done countless times since they were children. If he comforts her, he’ll kiss her, and if he kisses her, he’ll take her to the bed and fuck her. Then, they’ll lose themselves, a conflagration, and _ nothing _ will get better; it will all just _ burn, burn, burn_.

“We’ll get them. There's nothing to stop us now," Jaime vows, although he has no idea what that _ means_. They’re not a parcel, they’re living, breathing children, for all that he’s never met them.

“They’ll not know us,” she says, sad, “they only know Father, and I don’t know what he’s made them privy to.”

“Surely as little as possible. We’re his shame, and they’re the proof.”

"He created us that way." 

Cersei stands, then, and glides across the room to him. Her lucidity is temporary, but it transports Jaime back to childhood. Cersei was the strong one, in the wake of their mother’s death. _ She’s the lion, _ Jaime always thought, _ not me, for all I am father’s heir. _

The Cersei looking at him now is the one Jaime loved, _ loves _ and probably always will. She’s the one who’d pried their window open with a table knife and dragged Jaime onto the roof in the dead of night. The moon was beautiful, and the Sunset Sea mirrored it, and _ she _was beautiful next to him, in her plain nightgown with her hair in tangles.

_ “Why? If Father finds out, he’ll be angry, and it’s not like we can escape.” _

_ “He won’t find out,” Cersei said, “he’s trying to forget us. He never even visits now.” _

_ “What if we jumped?” Jaime muses. He can imagine it--falling through wind and then _nothing.

_ "Father might prefer that; he wouldn't even have to send us food." _

_ “But Tyrion…” _

_ “I don’t care a wit about Tyrion; he killed Mother-- _ he’s _ why we’re here_.”

_ Jaime knows she believes that, and her initial kindness to Tyrion had waned as time went on, leaving Jaime to be a bridge between them. Tyrion is fast asleep in his bed; he’s only five, and he doesn’t yet understand. _

_ “I care about him,” Jaime answers, “he’s our brother.” If Jaime jumped, Tyrion would be alone, even with Cersei. _

_ “We have to live; I won't give Father the opportunity to forget us." _

Jaime floats, again, in memory, and when he surfaces, Cersei is looking at him, tears still in her eyes. She's close enough to touch, and Jaime allows himself the concession of taking her hand. Cersei wants _ more_, he can tell from her expression. When he first refused her, she asked who he'd fallen in love with, but that wasn't it at all.

It was just that Cersei was a sinking ship, and Jaime would rather drift alone, on whatever wreckage he could fine, than go under with her. 

* * *

It has always amused Tyrion, in some wry way, that he was the only child Tywin Lannister actively chose to loose into the world--that he was so misshapen, such a disappointment, comported himself so poorly, that his father dumped a pile of gold dragons in a bank account and told him never to set foot in Casterly Rock again.

“I’d strip your name from you if I could,” his father had told him, “but the law won’t allow it.”

“You trapped me in this house, and now you won’t let me return. Make up your mind, Father,” were the last words Tyrion spoke before he walked out the door, and he hadn’t seen his father since.

Five years? Six? Seven? It mattered little.

Tyrion had never checked the sum, and hasn’t the faintest idea if his father ever shores up the account; he only knows his intent to burn the money on activities Tywin Lannister wouldn’t want his Lannister dynasty spent on. Everytime he pays a whore to suck his cock with a gold dragon earned by Tywin, the high of it is sweet, sweet justice, and Tyrion hasn’t tired of it.

The coffer will run dry, or mayhaps it won’t--Tyrion will cross that bridge when he comes to it.

He flings a wide net--sails to Dorne, and the Free Cities, and beyond--sees and tastes and fucks things for the sheer novelty of them. No one will ever be his jailer again.

It’s a stroke of fate that he’s in King’s Landing when Jaime calls upon him. Tyrion’s network of unscrupulous cityfolk let him know that his brother is looking for him. They meet in a Flea Bottom social club that Jaime would never step into of his own accord. 

“You look appropriately unhappy, brother,” Tyrion greets when Jaime slides into the chair across from him. “What brings you to my den of ill repute?”

“Father is dead.”

“Repeat that.”

Jaime sighs, “Tyrion, I know you heard me.”

Strangely, Tyrion feels _ nothing_, like Jaime had sat before him and told him some stranger had died. _ That’s _ what Tywin had done to him--made him numb. Not anger, not resentment, not sadness.

“Interesting,” Tyrion replies, taking a sip from his cup to give his mind space to wrap around the concept. “Was it ghastly?”

A ghost of a smirk graces Jaime’s face, “No. They found him slumped, facedown at his desk.”

Tyrion lets out a bark of a laugh, “Ever the dutiful steward to our dynasty. He died doing what he loved. I wonder if that painting of mother is still above the mantle.”

“In the blue gown; I remember it.”

“What would she think of us?” Questions about Joanna had to be directed to Jaime; Tyrion only existed with her in the world of the living for a few short hours.

Jaime fishes an envelope out of an inner pocket on his jacket and passes it across the table, “Father wrote this before he died--perhaps only a few hours. It arrived at the same time as Uncle Kevan’s letter about his death.”

The letter is only addressed to Jaime. “A _ ghost_?” Tyrion looks up at his brother. “Of mother?”

“Keep going.”

_ I’ve made a grave error in my quest to protect the three of you. _ He reads over the sentence thrice before it sinks in. “Is this... _ remorse_?”

“I don’t know.”

“He’s haunted by the spirit of our lady mother for his deeds.”

When Tyrion was a boy, he would dream of Joanna and wonder what she’d been like. Only Jaime spoke of her, that she was graceful, and clever, and gentle. And when Cersei told him _ you killed her; you caused this, _Jaime hugged him and whispered--

_ You didn’t kill her. _

_ I don’t blame you. _

_ She’s angry because we’re trapped. Forgive her, please--we’re all we have. _

“Too little, too late,” Tyrion puts the letter on the table; he’d burn it if it was addressed to him. “Did you show our sweet sister this?”

Jaime shakes his head, a stiff gesture that makes Tyrion wonder how _ that _ conversation went. “No--I saw no point. Father’s guilt, a _ fucking _ ghost? I showed her the missive from Uncle Kevan and left it at that.”

“Uncle Kevan bids us to return to the Rock?”

“Yes, I’m to settle the estate, and--”

What Jaime _ isn’t _ saying looms between them-- _ Tommen and Myrcella_. They’d been toddlers the last time Tyrion had seen them; Jaime had _ never _ met them. 

“Have fun,” Tyrion answers without thinking, “Father’s only gift to me was paying me to go away. I can’t imagine there’s much point in my attendance. It all goes to _ you_.”

Jaime freezes, and Tyrion knows he’s misspoken. “Tyrion,” he starts, “Come with me--_us_. Please.”

If his brother has inherited any of Tywin’s disposition, it’s his pride. Jaime never asks for help, and wears his self-sufficiency as armor by keeping everyone at arm’s length. Cersei is the only person Tyrion has _ ever _ seen him cede to; and, to Cersei, Jaime cedes _ hard_. Although, less so, recently, if Tyrion’s intelligence is correct.

“You’re asking me for help,” Tyrion smirks around his tankard.

“I’m asking as your brother. Other than Cersei, you’re the _ only _one--”

“If you’re looking to her for assistance, or for catharsis, or for a place to stick your cock,” Tyrion interrupts; he’s not even trying to be cruel--it’s just a fact, “Cersei is useless. When she’s not wine-drunk, she’s deep in cocaine.”

Jaime winces, and Tyrion knows he sees the truth of it. “You don’t need to tell me that she copes the most poorly of us. She suffered more at Father’s hands than we did.”

_ We all cope poorly, _ Tyrion thinks, _ Cersei’s just the most outwardly destructive_.

“The wise course would be to leave her here with Robert.”

“She won’t abide that,” Jaime answers, “and I won’t keep her from them; I’m not Father.”

_ That _ was the point of origin of _ all _ their trajectories; it was just a matter of how they wrecked themselves in their quest to not be Tywin.

“And _ your _feelings?”

“I...don’t know.”

Tyrion’s first memories are of Cersei and Jaime. He remembers Jaime reading to him, books were something they _ could _ ask for, and him being so bad at reading aloud that Cersei would get mad and take over. He remembers waking from some childish nightmare and crawling in bed between them; he never questioned _ why _Jaime and Cersei slept curled around each other, only that it seemed like the perfect panacea for the monster in his dream.

He figured it out, _ later_, probably much earlier than Jaime or Cersei thought so. Even then, he’d known no other normal, so stuffing his head under his pillow out of politeness seemed normal, too. They seemed _ adult_, for all the childish foolishness he can see in that logic now. No, though, they were scared, lonely _ children_.

The whole thing seems so, so impossibly fucked up to him, now, that when Tyrion thinks of it, there’s almost a dissociation. There was calmness, to those early days, and sometimes Tyrion feels burdened with an odd sort of survivor’s guilt. His birth had put them there, but every cruel stroke his father meted out against him happened in the _ after. _

“I’ll accompany you, if only because you need someone with _ sense_, and you’ve none.”

Jaime looks affronted, and Tyrion wishes all their conversations could be this light banter, “I’ve _ plenty _of sense.”

Tyrion leans in across the table and whispers, “Is _ sense _ what makes you fuck your sister?”

Affront turns to anger, “That’s _ done_, and you know it. I can’t help her.”

“Good.”

“Although, the idea of _ you _ telling _ me _ where not to stick my cock is just--”

Tyrion can’t help it--he _ laughs_, and Jaime joins in, and not one speck of the entire situation contains any humor. Tyrion will laugh here, and he’ll laugh over Tywin’s casket when they get there, because what the fuck else can he do?

“We’ll put the old bastard in the ground,” he waves his arm, hopefully high enough that the barkeep can see he needs more and _ more _ to get through this, “Then, we’ll light Casterly Rock on fire.”

* * *

Jaime spends four very uncomfortable days stuffed on a train with his siblings, and by the end of the second, is tempted to start drinking with them. Tyrion vanishes for hours at a time, returning looking pleased with himself and with a new type of alcohol to imbibe.

Their car is luxurious, but somber. Money can buy that, and Cersei's status as queen accomplishes the rest. They're well-guarded, which to Jaime just means _ trapped_. He'd feel less restless protecting himself. What has others assuring his safety ever done for him?

Captivity--like this fucking traincar; four walls and nowhere to go.

They all wear black, although Jaime isn't sure what he's mourning. Something that died long before Tywin, surely, because he's only dressed like this out of social courtesy. There's no sadness left in him.

"How did you _ possibly _ find something to fuck on this train?" Cersei asks from the chaise she's lounging on, staring out the window as they push ever further westward. The land gets rockier as they move away from King's Landing. Languid despondency suits his twin, like someone should paint her and capture her mourning, wine glass between her delicate fingers.

_ A Daughter's Grief_, maybe.

The real question, though, is _ what _is Cersei grieving?

"_Some _ of us look outside this room for things to fuck," Tyrion levels them both with a knowing look. He's smiling, poking them to see what they'll do.

Jaime loves them both, however messy it's become, but _ fuck_, they should _ not _be together like this. He should have ridden in a carriage, taken a month, and missed the whole affair. Let the two of them cannibalize each other out of his sight.

Cersei sits up, golden waves tumbling over her shoulders, "And _ why _do you think we did that, imp?"

Tyrion had to expect this response from Cersei--sober, she falls back on the same logic for her suffering. Inebriated, her repertoire shrinks. Jaime could have this conversation _ for _them.

"Because Mother's death is _ my _fault. My apologies that my birth ruined your life."

"If mother lived, _ none _of it would have happened," the pitch of her voice increases, and Jaime nearly tells her to shut up.

"He was just _ born_, Cersei, everything after our father did," Jaime has said as much, before--to her tears, her anger, her fear--he'd repeated and _ repeated_.

"You act like I fucking murdered her myself," Tyrion replies.

"You _ did_," Cersei spits back; she's going to break the stem on her glass If she clutches it any harder. "And what good has your existence brought _ anyone_? Certainly none to our family, as you burn through Father's money and keep all the whores in Westeros in business."

"And what have _ you _done, sweet sister? Spent a decade drunk on a couch while your husband and I share all the whores in the city?"

"I'm a _ queen--_"

Sometimes, Jaime wonders what life would have been like if their mother _ had _ lived. There's one glaring event that would have changed, but what of the ripples? Would he still have loved Cersei as he did? Maybe later, maybe _ differently_, but Jaime thinks he would have.

No, he _ knows _ his vice--she's pouring more wine and glaring death at their little brother. Jaime has just gotten very _ good _ at denying himself. When did his love become _ guilt_? As soon as he realized he felt sorry for her, Jaime pushed her away.

"_Please _ stop," he interjects. Both Cersei and Tyrion halt mid-word. "We've _ two _ more days of this, then we have an _ estate _ to sort through. Everyone on this train is going to _ know everything _ if you don't shut up."

Cersei purses her lips into a thin line, and Tyrion crosses his arms. Half a decade in their constant presence _ should _ make this easier; all it does is make Jaime feel ancient. Children really _ are _ more resilient, and he was never meant to be their leader. A bridge, maybe, but not the head.

"Is there _ one _ pleasant thing," he asks, "in all our shared history, that we can focus on?"

_ Can we all just be happy that we’re putting our father in the ground? _

“The two of you took care of me,” Tyrion says, much softer than before, “Father never cared and probably would have let me starve, so it fell to you two, and you _ did_.”

“Cersei was the creative one, though,” Jaime thinks back to all her games that eased the tedium. “Some of your schemes were quite imaginative.” 

“And _ some _I never participated in,” Tyrion looks between the two of them.

“You _ never _noticed us--”

He waves a hand, “You can think that if it eases your conscience, but it’s a falsehood. From the first to the last, I _ always _ noticed.”

Jaime buries his head in his hands--does everything come back to _ this_? They should go back to deriding him; it would be less mortifying.

“I read to you,” Cersei replies after a moment of silence. She’s not smiling, but her expression is lighter. “To _ both _ of you.”

“Jaime couldn’t read aloud if his life depended on it. Are you any better now?”

“That was _ twenty years ago _!” Jaime’s the loud one now. “And...no, not particularly.” He stands beside doors and escorts important people, maybe stabs someone occasionally. “Who’s to read father’s will?”

“I will,” Tyrion chimes in, “one last bit of spite, for _ me _ to be the one to portion out his legacy, when he surely left me none.”

Cersei _ does _ laugh then, “Maybe he left a whore under the bed for you.”

“Maybe he forgot Jaime completely and left you _ everything_,” Tyrion quips back.

“Would that Father was _ that _smart.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! 
> 
> Next chapter is all Brienne and Sansa with a strong a Mulder and Scully from the X-Files dynamic.


	3. i must become a lion hearted girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I’m Sansa Stark, I work--”_
> 
> _“In the office; you do the typing,” she answers, her hand tense in Sansa’s grasp. “I’m Brienne of Tarth.”_
> 
> _Sansa knows she has the hands of a lady--her only calluses are from holding an embroidery hoop, and maybe on the pads of her fingers now, from so much furious typing. Brienne’s hand in hers feels nothing like that; her hand reminds Sansa of her brothers’, or her father’s--strong and capable, a hand that protects._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is quite niche, so thank you for all the kudos and subscriptions! I hadn't intended for Sansa and Brienne to come off so sapphic, but I decided to roll with it. Maybe I'll write that one day. For now, enjoy their buddy cop adventure and long-suffering Addam Marbrand.
> 
> Chapter title comes from the Florence + the Machine song "Rabbit Heart."
> 
> If writing updates and fandom screaming interest you, you can find me on tumblr at [kurikaesu-haru](https://kurikaesu-haru.tumblr.com/).

Sansa Stark’s office, if one would be ambitious enough to call it such, is little more than a broom closet. There’s a desk with a typewriter that engulfs the entire space and a tiny chair. Her skirts brush against both the wall _ and _ the table as she slides by to take her seat. It was too much to hope for a window, but she would’ve liked to be able to traverse the space without knocking into things.

It’s a blessing, though, in a way, because it meant anonymity, and there was something about it Sansa craved. She wanted to be _ normal_, she wanted to be someone else. More than a scared girl, more than a wary Northerner, more than the embarrassed former-betrothed of Loras Tyrell of Highgarden, who preferred _ men_, which was _ fine, _ but she wish he'd told her.

She’s the eldest daughter of Ned Stark, Warden of the North, but her pedigree means little in the capital. There’s thousands like her, people streaming in from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms to make something of themselves. Her father’s station, and his friendship with King Robert, secured her position. She can hear Arya laughing at her and every romantic daydream she’d ever espoused about living a glamorous life in the city. Arya would guffaw until _ tears _ streamed down her face at _ lady _ Sansa sitting in a closet and answering the summons of unappreciative old men.

Mostly, Sansa types--there’s no end to the amount of paperwork the City Watch central office processes daily. Crime reports, public notices, correspondence between the different districts of King’s Landing, letters to relatives of fallen city watch guards. 

She’s asked to make coffee, or clean, and she does those tasks without complaint, tasks she would _ never _ do at home in Winterfell. Even when one of the city watch rests a hand on her back for too long, or calls her _ sweetling_, Sansa maintains her silence. Would he touch the eldest daughter of Ned Stark like that, if she stood up for herself? Never in her father’s hall, but Sansa _ wanted _ to blend in, and here is the consequence. 

Arya would punch the man, if someone would dare touch _ Arya Horseface _ without her permission.

Sansa imagined King’s Landing filled with gallant knights, like those from the old stories. “Men are like pigs,” Old Nan had told both her and Arya when they were girls, and Sansa sees the truth of it now.

On her third day, Petyr Baelish, an old friend of her mother’s, tries to kiss her in a stairway. “You look just like Cat,” he whispers into her ear, “_ just _ like her.”

Sansa is paralyzed, and she doesn’t, _ doesn’t _\--

“You’d do well to step away from her.”

In Sansa’s girlhood dreams, a knight would ride in and save her from peril. In reality, her knight is a woman dressed in the uniform of the City Watch. The uniform suits her--she’s tall, and the pants and jacket don’t make her look like she’s playing dress-up. Sansa remembers trying on her father’s jackets when she was a girl--she’d look no less ridiculous swimming in them now.

“And who are you to interrupt us?” Baelish pulls his hand away from Sansa’s waist, and she uses the opportunity to create distance between them. 

“Someone who doesn’t think you should touch people without their permission.”

“Lady Sansa didn’t mind,” he replies, “I’m an old friend of her mother’s.”

“I minded,” Sansa blurts, smoothing her hands over her dress as though it will remove the lingering feeling of the unwanted contact. It’s all the same, the hand at her back, gripping her elbow; she wants to scream _ personal space _ at every man in the office.

“She doesn’t welcome it, my lord, so leave her be,” the woman replies.

Baelish graces them with expression that Sansa might wither under if she were alone, but the older woman just meets his gaze head on. “I’ll remember you,” he says, smiling.

“Do,” she responds, “I can give you my card, to solidify it.”

When Baelish is gone, Sansa reaches out and takes the other woman’s hand between her own. _ “Thank you, _” she says in a rush, “I’m Sansa Stark, I work--”

“In the office; you do the typing,” she answers, her hand tense in Sansa’s grasp. “I’m Brienne of Tarth.”

Sansa knows she has the hands of a lady--her only calluses are from holding an embroidery hoop, and maybe on the pads of her fingers now, from so much furious typing. Brienne’s hand in hers feels _ nothing _ like that; her hand reminds Sansa of her brothers’, or her father’s--strong and capable, a hand that _ protects_.

“I typed your transfer paperwork last week,” Sansa explains, “I thought there was an error, but I was scolded when I double-checked, so I typed it as written.”

Brienne looks embarrassed, like she expects Sansa to scold her, “N-no,” she stumbles, “Not an error. I’m supposed to be here, whatever anyone else thinks.”

She sounded so _ confident _ in her admonishment of Petyr Baelish, and now she won’t meet Sansa eyes. Sansa tries to guess her age; from a distance, Her imposing figure masked it, but the blue eyes avoiding hers are those of a girl. Brienne can’t be more than twenty.

“They’re all lechers,” Sansa whispers, “Completely improper.”

Brienne lets out a breath, and sags a bit; Sansa releases her hand and clasps her own together.

“Being homely matters little--they latch onto that, too.”

“You’re a _ woman _ in the City Watch. A _ lady _even,” Sansa continues, recalling childhood lessons on the noble houses in Westeros. “You’re your father’s heir, aren’t you?”

“If I must be,” Brienne sighs, “I think I’m a poor heir.”

Sansa nods, “I’ve an older brother, and I’m grateful for it.”

There’s a flash of pain on Brienne’s face, shuttered behind a placid mask as quick as it appears.

“Would you like to take lunch with me? I owe you, now, for my rescue. We can go out--there’s no room at my desk with the typewriter anyway.”

“If-if you’d like, Lady Sansa.”

Sansa takes Brienne’s hand again and thinks, all the way downstairs and out into the crowded street below, _ I’ve found a friend. _

* * *

Brienne doesn’t know how to comport herself around other women. Her sisters had died in their cribs, and her mother soon after. The only womanly presence in her life was Septa Roelle, her governess, and if she was the hallmark of female companionship, Brienne would choose a sword or a pistol and the company of men who mocked her. 

Men, she could beat. Men, she _ did _ beat.

With women, though, she had little recourse. Brienne is utterly convinced that she makes a _ terrible _ woman. She doesn’t _ improve _ at the feminine arts--no cut of dress will make her appear soft and comely, no amount of practice improved her dancing or her needlework. As Septa Roelle had told her--the mirror would reveal the truth to her, and it did, every morning when she viewed herself as she brushed her hair. She was tall, and broad, and _ mannish_, and any attempt to hide it made it worse. So, Brienne buried the parts of herself that didn’t fit with her image, buried her romantic heart, and her love of listening to tales about ladies and knights, and had gone about that way for nearly a decade.

Sansa, by all accounts, shouldn’t be her friend. Beautiful, auburn-haired Sansa, with her dainty hands and her voluminous, Northern-style dresses. Yet, after nearly a month at the Central Office, Brienne lets Sansa pull her to the roof to eat lunch together, overlooking the bustle of the city. Sansa invites her to dinner at her boarding house, and Brienne sits, initially mortified, in a room full of knitting ladies who ask her about her _ work_. There’s one snide comment, certainly, but Sansa regales them with a tale of Brienne tackling a pickpocket who tried to lift her handbag, and Margaery and Jeyne look at her, wide-eyed.

“I-I can teach you,” Brienne had stumbled, “Not a sword, but something simpler. You only need to get away, or make a lot of noise.”

She’s surprised she doesn’t finish with _ The City Watch will protect you! _like she’s part of some advertising campaign.

And so, Brienne _ does _ teach them, on more than one evening, imagining what she would do if size wasn’t on her side. Sansa became her demonstration partner, which works out well, since Brienne is honestly the size of person Sansa might encounter who she’d need to disarm. She lets Sansa stomp on her foot with her heeled boot, and knee her in a place that would hurt if she wasn’t a woman.

“I’d love to try that out on some of the men in the office,” Sansa says wistfully, “Are you...hurt?”

Brienne _ doesn’t _laugh, but she does smile slightly, “I’d be startled, and that’s enough to get away.”

“So would stabbing him in the eye with my hatpin,” Margeary says.

“Do you want to stay over?” Sansa whispers when everyone scatters from the sitting room. “When I was a girl, we’d crowd in my bed and whisper half the night. Even Arya would come sometimes, although she only talked of riding horses and beating our brothers in the yard.”

“Your sister sounds like me as a girl,” Brienne answers. Maybe that was why Sansa was kind to her? “I’d go missing for hours, and my father would find me in my brother’s old clothes.”

“You’ve a brother?” 

She hadn’t meant to talk about Galladon--it’d been so long now, she barely remembers his face, only that he’d been the first person to hand her a wooden sword. A toy, but it had been the beginning. 

“Had,” she answers, “he died when I was young.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago,” Brienne shrugs, a gesture that feels silly when she’s so tall.

“Old things still hurt,” Sansa replies, “And you don’t remind me of Arya--she’s a tomboy. You’re more like me, aren’t you?”

Brienne blinks at her blankly, in a way that her septa would probably say makes her look bovine. Sansa is delicate outwardly, but her spine is steel, and she moves through the world with genuine determination. She _ wishes _ for an ounce of Sansa’s poise.

“I am?”

“You like chivalry and romance, and old stories about princes and knights," she doesn't even phrase it as a question.

“...How’d you know?”

Sansa’s answer is just knowing a smile.

* * *

The first instance of Sansa helping Brienne on an assignment is an accident. In fact, it isn't even an _ actual _ case, it's just that Brienne is the definition of a good citizen and stops to help people constantly. The first time Sansa ran an errand with her, it took three times as long because Brienne helped a man with an overloaded cart, carrying the heavy parcels much more efficiently than he had.

"Who...is she?" he'd asked.

Sansa shrugged, "She's with the City Watch."

"They...unload carts, now?"

She shrugged again, "_ She _ does."

The pattern continues--King's Landing is up to its eyes in petty crime, and Brienne's mission seems to be to stop it all. So, Sansa lifts her heavy skirts and follows Brienne down an alley at a much slower pace as she takes down a thief who'd lifted something from a jewelry shop. And when Brienne has to interview someone, she discovers how fast Sansa can take notes, and before long, Sansa is following Brienne on her _ actual _ shifts.

The other City Watch officers think Brienne an oddity, and it doesn't take Sansa long to figure out why. She'd assumed that, like for her, being a woman would be the center of it.

That's not it, though.

It's that Brienne wants to do_ good _; she's interested in the truth in any case she's working on. When the other officers are gloating over arrests or taking bribes, Brienne is double-checking for inconsistencies and errors. She applies an unwavering logic to everything she investigates, and irritates everyone with her dogged pursuit of truth.

"You're one woman, Brienne," Sansa says to her one evening when she is working much, much too late into the night.

"This person could be innocent," she points at the case file on her desk. The text flickers in the lamp light, and the words blur together. Not that it matters--Sansa typed it, so she knows what it says.

"And they still will be in the morning. You can't burn yourself at both ends."

Brienne's mulish glares are a thing of renown, but Sansa just reaches for the file folder on the desk and closes it. Her hair slides over her shoulder, and, as she pushes it back, Sansa wonders again if she should cut it, or pin it up in a more Southern style. 

"Sansa--" 

"_Tomorrow,_" Sansa tucks the folder under her arm. "Let's go back to the shop and look around again. You can dust for fingerprints, and I will interview the neighbors again. Maybe one will have recalled something new."

The glare is still there, and now Brienne _ does _ remind Sansa a bit of Arya; it's her willfulness. Brienne sighs, though, and stands up. 

"You've a point; mortals need sleep."

When they return to the shop the next day, Brienne goes over everything with intense scrutiny, and leaves Sansa to talk to witnesses and take notes. Brienne is polite, but delightfully awkward and too blunt. 

"How do you...talk to people so easily?"

Sansa looks up at Brienne, smiling, "Years of etiquette lessons and watching my lady mother. Father looks at her helplessly for anything delicate." Catelyn Stark is fierce, and one of her best skills is getting information out of people while _ they _ think she isn't. "I'm not _ half _ as good as she is."

"But you're at least _ twice _ as good as me."

And that's how Brienne, in one of her inconsistent bouts of assertiveness, marches into Addam Marbrand's office demanding Sansa be made her assistant.

"She's wasted on merely typing," Brienne says.

Marbrand looks taken aback, the same way everyone does when Brienne does more than bury her nose in a case file.

"We...need a typist, though," Marbrand replies.

"Hire another," Brienne answers, "Sansa is better at note taking and interviewing. Her service to the City Watch should be more than getting your coffee."

Marbrand is smiling, just a tiny quirk of one side of his mouth--he _ likes _ Brienne, or at least admires her principle and candor.

Sansa is hovering near the office door, trying to decide what to say when she's inevitably addressed. 

"Lady Stark," Marbrand looks past Brienne at her. "Do you tire of deskwork?"

_ Yes_, she wants to scream, _ and all your employees making advances at me. _

_ Lady Stark _ is her mother, and Sansa doesn't prefer to be called that. _ Lady Sansa, _ perhaps, or, better yet, just _ Sansa_. “It's refreshing," she says instead, "to be out and about. I feel like I'm making a difference.."

Marbrand is grinning at both of them, now, "People told me not to hire too many women, and now you're teaming up."

Brienne glowers, and Sansa smiles congenially, unsure of which will be more effective. 

He sighs, "Type an advertisement for your replacement, and when we locate a suitable one, you can switch."

* * *

King’s Landing has no shortage of young women looking for the type of job Sansa has; governesses and secretaries were some of the only career options open to them. It doesn’t take long for Sansa to find her replacement, and then she’s free to trail behind Brienne, scribbling things down in her notebook and talking to people.

Brienne can’t tell if Sansa is more reporter or assistant, but she’s supremely helpful either way.

So, one month passes, and then two, and the two of them develop quite a reputation--they end up with shit cases, which doesn't surprise Brienne. She’s the newest, and her diligence makes her an easy target for her co-workers who just want to make arrests. 

Sansa doesn’t complain about the odd hours or traipsing through Flea Bottom. “You’ll protect me,” she tells Brienne, “and I’ve got my knife.”

A recent addition, but Sansa takes quickly to Brienne’s suggestions for where and how to stab a man, if needed. “Don’t look for trouble, though,” Brienne tells her.

“Who needs to hunt it? Trouble finds us readily enough.”

“They owe you a pay raise.” 

Sansa is still earning her typist salary, but she never says anything.

Sansa shrugs, “I don’t need the money.”

“Do you find purpose in this?” Brienne asks Sansa one night; they’re the only ones left in the office, _ again_, and Sansa is furiously typing a report.

“Small acts add up,” Sansa answers.

She’d told Brienne about her failed engagement with Loras Tyrell, and in turn, Brienne had told her about her girlhood crush on Renly Baratheon, and how he’d visited Tarth and danced with her. Sansa had laughed until tears streamed down her cheeks. “I hope they’re_ happy _ together. They’re both very _ pretty._”

And, really, Brienne is _ happy_\--the happiest she’s been since she left Tarth. She’d wanted purpose, wanted away from the disappointment in her father’s eyes at each failed engagement. He loves her, supports her every endeavor, but she’s his heir, and nothing can change that. 

_ I’ll find someone on my own_, she wanted to assure him, but unlike Sansa, and the hundreds of women in the city, no one will want the ungainly Maid of Tarth. Brienne can deal with scorn--it’s been her close companion for many years. If she looks at the ground, she won’t notice people looking _ at _ her. If she focuses on work, the questions of how a person as ridiculous as her can even _ exist _won’t reach her ears.

Brienne’s never said anything, but the matches her father chooses aren’t _ good _ men--they’re upstarts who think Tarth is a boon, and that they can suffer her for the title of Evenstar when her father passes. She refuses them, bests them in combat, or they refuse her--all while her father looks on, disappointed.

* * *

And it's all going well, until late spring, when news of Tywin Lannister's death hits the capital and Marbrand calls both her and Sansa into his office.

"You don't think they're going to to try and blame us?" Sansa whispers as they're perched on the uncomfortable chairs outside.

"Sansa--_what_? We've never even _ met _ Tywin Lannister; how could he blame us?"

She shrugs, "They've used shoddier logic to make arrests. You _ know _I have a point."

Sansa, for all that she's prone to flights of fancy, isn't wrong. "You're... right," Brienne concedes, and Sansa giggles into her hand.

"Ser Addam is friends with Ser Jaime," Sansa continues, "Although I don't see how that involves us either."

"I'm not sure how _ anyone _ could be friends with Jaime Lannister." Brienne has only met him a handful of times, but she finds him rude and arrogant. 

"Because he's _ beautiful_," Sansa rests her chin on her hand. "Leagues beyond Renly _ or _Loras."

"...With a horrible personality."

"Who's talking about that, though?"

Sansa has the right of it again; no one cared a whit about Jaime Lannister's personality. He's the queen's brother, and a knight, and has a coveted Kingsguard job. Women trip over themselves to get to him, and gossip rags speculate about _ why _ he remains unwed. Jaime can be as rude as he wants. 

_ Wench. _

_ Stubborn cow. _

_ Are you _ really _ a woman? _

Brienne is grumpy thinking of all her interactions with Jaime Lannister by the time Marbrand opens his opens his office door and ushers them in. The chairs before his desk are _ little _more comfortable, but still too small for Brienne to fit in. Sansa looks perfectly at home, as usual.

"I've a...strange assignment for the two of you. More like a request, honestly."

"Ser?" 

"I'm sure you've heard about Tywin Lannister's death by now, and the...strange rumors surrounding it."

Brienne hasn't, actually. She's heard of Lord Tywin's death, anyone would have to be under a rock to miss it. Her only knowledge of gossip comes from Sansa, and Lannister family drama doesn't interest her.

"You mean the rumor that Casterly Rock is _ haunted_?" Sansa blurts.

_ Gods, Sansa _ would _ love that rumor. _

She's about to clap her hands in excitement, while Brienne looks across the desk with more trepidation.

"That's the one," Marbrand answers, scrubbing a hand over his face; he looks _ tired_, but Brienne always thinks he looks overworked. "The financial side of it is a _ nightmare _, and I've received word that some Lord of Light followers are intending to perform an exorcism on the house. They may already be en route."

"Aren't they a…" Brienne searches for the correct wording, "a cult?"

"Pretty much," says Sansa, "They worship R'hllor, the old god of Asshai. And they're unpredictable, and they _ really _ like burning things."

"Tywin's been a recluse for the last few years, since Cersei married King Robert," Marbrand taps his pen on the desk. "There's rumors that the Lannister wealth is waning, and that he hasn't managed the mines well for _ years_."

"If all this is true, his children don't seem to notice much." Jaime seems like he hasn't a care in the world, and Queen Cersei is often called a drunk in spaces where important people _ hopefully _ aren't listening.

"None of his children have seen him in _ years_," Marbrand taps the pen more aggressively. "I _ know _ Jaime hasn't returned to Casterly Rock since joining the Kingsguard."

"It's a thousand miles away," Brienne says.

"A four-day train ride. Not enough to excuse nearly a decade of no contact," Sansa looks like she's trying to unravel the mystery without even two details to rub together.

"I'm…concerned," he says, slower, "Lord Tywin's death _ is _ sudden and mildly suspicious, and any Lord of Light activity is worth looking into. And there's not an industry in the Seven Kingdoms the Lannisters don't have a hand in."

"You mean for us to go?" Brienne guesses. They're called the City Watch for a reason, but being sent out somewhere wasn't unheard of.

"Everyone else will whinge for _ days_."

Sansa is practically sparking, "An old manor, rumors of ghosts, religious zealots. Ser, I will go for _ free_." She pauses and looks at Brienne. "If you're willing, of course."

Brienne sighs, knows she's beaten before the first protest left her mouth. "For the good of the realm."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> extra_credit: Whenever I pitch an idea, I go with the silliest possible delivery (especially for serious concepts). I wasn't sure how to get Brienne all the way to Casterly Rock, so I started to just make it up as I went, which is how she wound up as Ichabod Crane from Tim Burton's _Sleepy Hollow_.
> 
> Let us know what you think!


	4. holding my hand in the pale gloom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The train takes them to Lannisport, and from there, they ride in a carriage the miles to Casterly Rock. The house is a monolith, situated high on a bluff overlooking the Sunset Sea. It’s stone, and square, and harsh. The weather is clear, today, and they must spend the last few miles of the journey watching the house growing more substantial in the distance._
> 
> _“Fuck,” Tyrion says, more to himself than to either of his siblings._
> 
> _“There it is,” Jaime agrees._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the reviews and kudos! I must confess I was a _little_ worried this fic might not find its audience. I'm not sure how much of a market there is for a ghost story with a hefty side of childhood trauma.
> 
> I hope you enjoy the chapter! The week's chapter title comes from the Florence + the Machine Song "Breaking Down"

The train takes them to Lannisport, and from there, they ride in a carriage the miles to Casterly Rock. The house is a monolith, situated high on a bluff overlooking the Sunset Sea. It’s stone, and square, and _ harsh_. The weather is clear, today, and they must spend the last few miles of the journey watching the house growing more substantial in the distance.

“Fuck,” Tyrion says, more to himself than to either of his siblings.

“There it is,” Jaime agrees.

Surprisingly, it’s Cersei who climbs out of the carriage first--she doesn’t even wait for the groundsman, Sandor Clegane, to open the door for her. Sandor, with his scarred face, is as hideous a sight as ever. Tywin wanted to keep people off the property, and Sandor was the _ perfect _face to do it.

“The lordlings and the lady have returned,” Clegane greets them.

“Thank you, for keeping this _ awful fucking house _ going without us.”

“It’s a paycheck.”

Tyrion chuckles, “Until the money runs out.”

He wasn’t around until _ after _ Jaime and Cersei had already left, so they leave Tyrion to make small talk. Neither of them are very skilled at it, regardless. Cersei thinks herself above it, and Jaime turns glib much too quickly.

Clegane begrudgingly takes their bags and puts them on a cart, “There’s no shortage of rooms; where do you want to go?”

Tyrion tries to think quickly--not the top floor, not any of their childhood rooms from _ before_, not any room their parents occupied. “The west side, second floor.”

“Those are guest rooms.”

“For _ guests_,” Tyrion agrees, “I’ll _ never _ reside here again.”

He assumes Jaime and Cersei feel the same.

His siblings are staring at the house, with it’s walls so high that they nearly block out the sun. It’s mid-afternoon and the yard looks like it’s dusk. The front garden is more dilapidated than he remembers, flowerbeds grown wild and hedges that need shaped; Sandor is one man, though, and the yards of Casterly Rock are not a one-man job. 

Tyrion’s a bit surprised when he sees Jaime take Cersei’s hand out of the corner of his eye. Cersei clutches his in return, and Tyrion’s transported back; they’d stared out their window, hands clasped like that, and he’d been childishly grateful to them. Cersei, even with her bouts of meanness, and Jaime, who treated him as anyone else would.

Their bond always mystified him a bit, and filled him with a _ definitely _ unpalatable sense of envy. It’s not about fucking; he’s not even sure if desire is the point of origin between them, either. It's just loneliness, the gaping maw of it that was this _ entire _ house, and their entire lives. Tyrion was truly _ alone_, though--the imp, the _ third_. They remembered their mother’s face; they hadn’t _ killed _ her to exist; they had one another. 

It’s cruel of him, and petty, to rank their suffering. The order of their births didn’t matter--Tywin would have done the same thing either way. 

“I’m..frightened,” Cersei whispers, just loud enough for Tyrion to make out. 

_ I never thought I’d witness the day Cersei admits fear_.

“Me too,” Jaime agrees, “but the dead can’t harm us, and it’s just a house.”

“A charmingly straightforward view, as usual, Jaime,” Tyrion walks up beside them. They all watch Clegane pull the cart through the heavy, wooden doors--doors they are going to need to step through momentarily.

“Tommen and Myrcella…” Cersei trails off. Children she’d named, and then were ripped from her. At least they were _ alive _\--

“They’re sweet,” Tyrion says, “Or they were, as babes. I assume they’re still sweet.”

_ Hopefully our father didn’t ruin them. _ What would be worse, though? Tywin’s neglect or his attention? 

* * *

The house is a tomb.

It’s another fucking analogy, but it’s also _ fact _\--Tywin’s casket is in the front parlor, and the heavy curtains are drawn. Not that the room could ever be considered bright and airy. Uncle Kevan had said they’d wait to entomb him in the family plot, but leaving him where he is seems close enough.

Jaime surprised himself by taking Cersei’s hand; he doesn’t even know what she _ is _ to him when he does it. His _ sister_, but there’s the _ rest_. He puts his other hand on Tyrion’s shoulder. It’s easier to face the house as a unified front.

“There’s shit that needs done,” Clegane says when he returns with the empty cart. “Lord Kevan will return tomorrow. I’m not a fucking nanny, so figure it out.”

“Does he think _ we _ need a nanny?” Tyrion asks when Sandor is out of earshot. 

_ We definitely needed a nanny. _

“Clegane...right?” Jaime asks. “His grandfather was....something, once? A kennel master?”

“Who cares?” Cersei says.

The rooms Tyrion picked for them are good choices; tucked at the end of a long hallway and far enough from any areas of the house Jaime doesn’t want to go in. It would never do for a guest to forget Lannister hospitality sponsored the roof over their heads, so even the guest room is festooned in gold and crimson.

He leaves his suitcase where Sandor dropped it at the end of the bed.

Jaime spends the next span of time moving through the first and second floor of the house, looking for some way to make himself more comfortable in the space. Even in death, Tywin _ lingers _ \--he’s in the heavy, velveteen curtains that shut out the afternoon sun, his image is reflected in the painting of golden-haired ancestors that line the hallways. Jaime pushes all the draperies back and leaves _ every single _door open in the rooms he enters.

“I forgot how _ dark _ this place is,” Cersei calls out when she enters the room behind him. It’s a sitting room--one of a dozen that probably hasn’t been used in _ decades_. Dust sparkles in the air from the shafts of light created by the open curtains.

“The sunlight doesn’t reach us here,” Jaime answers. _ Maybe, though, if I open enough windows. They’re mine to do so with, now_.

“A dark, musty house befitting our family.”

He’s about to respond when there’s a knock on the doorframe of the sitting room. Both Cersei and Jaime turn at the sound.

“My lord, your grace,” a woman calls out. Her hair is nearly as dark as the wood surrounding the doorframe, and she’s dressed in a loosely flowing gown like they wear in Essos. She looks much too delicate for the heaviness of the house.

“Yes?” Jaime doesn’t know her, but he didn’t know Sandor, either--every servant in the house is surely different than from when they were children. Tywin would have hired new people _ after_, to better keep the secrets.

“I’m Shae,” she answers, and bows into a curtsy that could rival Cersei’s in terms of form. “I’m, um, the governess--for the children.”

Cersei outright gasps, hand covering her mouth. Jaime fares better, holding out his hand to greet Shae, lest she realize the utter _ mess _ all three of her former lord’s children are. She seems even more delicate up close. “Thank you for taking care of the house,” Jaime says in return.

Shae shakes her head, dark curls bouncing on her shoulders; she’s _ pretty, _ if Jaime were inclined to act on such things. “It’s nothing, my lord. They’ve never seen guests, though, so they insisted…”

Jaime has _ never _ daydreamed of this moment--Tommen and Myrcella were lost to him before they were even conceived, a token offer Tywin used to attempt to reel him home that he would _ never _ have made good on. Cersei has cried over them many, many times, and Jaime decides, then, that he will let her have this moment, however it plays out.

That _ doesn’t _ mean Jaime’s heart doesn’t try and claw its way out his chest when Shae ushers them into the doorframe. They _ match _\--of course they do--golden ringlets and bright green eyes, twins born of twins. Their expressions are wary, and Shae keeps one hand on each of their shoulders; she doesn’t know how to introduce them, either.

He has _ no fucking clue _ how to contextualize their precense to Tommen and Myrcella; he should have spent some of the four days on the train thinking of _ this _ instead of lamenting his relationships with Cersei and Tyrion.

Cersei kneels, black skirts pooling on the rug covering the stone floor, and holds out a hand. Tommen and Myrcella look to one another, then to Shae, who nods and nudges them forward.

“Hello,” they say in unison.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Cersei sounds regal, like she’s talking to some visiting dignitary--the mask she wears when she’s overwhelmed. Jaime can hear the strain in her voice. It’s better than the alternative, volatile and unpredictable; that may come later, though.

Myrcella takes Cersei’s hand, first; Tommen is clutching hers. “Welcome to Casterly Rock.”

“Thank you,” Cersei replies, letting go of Myrcella’s hand. “You’re Myrcella and Tommen.”

_ As though she doesn’t know_, Jaime thinks, and the sorrow of watching his sister pretend to meet them is a knife between his ribs. _ As though she didn’t carry them, and name them herself. _

“We are,” they reply together.

“I’m Cersei,” she stands, and turns to him, “This is Jaime, _ my _ brother.”

He’d been content, to be left out of the conversation--it’s not that he doesn’t _ want _ to know them, but the overwhelming feeling of it paralyzes him. To have them exist as more than an abstraction, forever in his periphery.

“Hello,” Jaime manages, although the expression on his face is anyone’s guess. He kneels before them like Cersei had. He wants to apologize to them, but he’s not sure for what. “I’m sorry about Lord Tywin--Father, I mean. He was my father.”

“Grandfather was always so sad,” Myrcella says, eyes on the ground, “Especially at the end.”

“He didn’t like to look at us,” Tommen continues. “Lady Shae was to keep us away.”

“I’m sorry,” Jaime repeats, as though it helps at all. He’s afraid to look up at Cersei standing next to him, “Father didn’t like to look at us, either.”

_ At least they have Shae_. She’s looking down at them like they’re _ her _ children, and Jaime will have to find some way to thank her, later. One adult looking out for them would have meant the _ world_.

“We look like Grandmother,” Myrcella pulls at a lock of Tommen’s hair; the curl bounces back as she lets go. “That’s why Grandfather never wanted to see us.”

_ If only that was the _ entire _ reason. _

“We _ all _ look like Grandmother,” Cersei agrees. 

Jaime chances a glance at her, but only catches the golden waves of her hair. 

“_Especially _you, Tommen reaches out, pointing up to Cersei, “You must be our mother.”

* * *

Shae doesn't knock, which suits Tyrion just fine. It's been _ years_, but he's never wanted her to knock. The surprise of waking up and finding her there was half the pleasure--another thing his lord father didn't need to know about. Her appearance at Casterly Rock was the only bright spot after Tommen and Myrcella were born.

Cersei was married off to Robert Baratheon, and Jaime, fool as he was, followed her to King’s Landing and joined the fucking Kingsgaurd.

"I wondered if you'd come to me," Tyrion whispers, "Or if you'd forgotten me."

"My lion," Shae whispers, "of course I remember you. Although, I never expected to see you here again." She's holding a candle, and she places it on the bedside table before resting her elbows on the bed, chin in her hand.

“I never expected to return,” Tyrion answers, “but I doubt Father expected to die so suddenly. He _ certainly _thought himself immortal.”

“Lord Tywin wasn’t himself for these past few months.”

Tyrion lifts the bed linens and Shae crawls in next to him, “I don’t know that I want to discuss my late lord father right now.”

“Play along for a while, and I’ll reward you.”

_ Ah_, a reward from Shae would be worth such a detour. “An acceptable tangent, I suppose.”

“The children wanted to meet Lord Jaime and Queen Cersei when you arrived this afternoon,” Shae whispers.

“That seems like a normal enough thing--they’ve never left the grounds, so of course they’d be interested in guests. Who have they seen for the last ten years but you and my father?”

She purses her lips, “Tommen said that Queen Cersei was their mother.”

Any sleepiness that had began to overtake Tyrion is doused by Shae’s words; he sits up and looks to her, “_ How _ would Tommen know that?”

“There’s truth behind it, then?”

“What did Father tell you?”

“Nothing,” she answers, “Care for them, keep them away from him.”

“Then _ how _did Tommen come to know it?”

“They’re...odd children,” Shae lays back against the pillows, “They say Lady Joanna visits them, tells them things.”

“A _ ghost_?” Tyrion doesn’t hide his incredulousness. “Father wrote Jaime a letter before he died that mentioned seeing _ something _ as well.”

“I _ know _ Lord Tywin never told them _ anything _ \--he never even told _ me_. The way Queen Cersei _ looked _at them though, is it--?”

“_Yes_,” Tyrion closes his eyes, wishes Shae would blow out the candle and forget this entire conversation. “Surely you’ve wondered?”

“Of course, but Lord Tywin’s salary bid me not to inquire.”

“Ten years, and you don’t know the _ biggest _ secret of the Lannisters. You’ve seen the children everyday for their whole lives. Who do they _ look _like?”

Tyrion has never known Shae to be a fool, and is confident she’ll put the pieces together. Tywin can’t stop the secret from beyond the grave. Tyrion wants a hand in tearing it down, brick by brick.

“They look like---their _ hair_,” she holds out her hand like she’s imagining the golden curls under her fingers. How many hundreds of times has she touched them? Affectionate gestures meant to soothe them. If _ anyone _should see it, it’s Shae. 

She touches Tyrion’s hair, now--the only Lannister feature he can credit himself with. He certainly wasn’t graced with the beauty of his twin siblings. “_Oh_,” she says, barely audible.

“It’s certainly not _ me_,” Tyrion almost laughs.

“...Lord Jaime?”

He nods.

“_Gods_,” Shae gasps, pulls her hand away from Tyrion and covers her mouth. “Lord Tywin wouldn’t let them sleep together, even when they were babes--”

“Fear of the cycle repeating,” Tyrion guesses. Tywin _ would _ assume that, would miss the fact that he _ created _ the situation that created Tommen and Myrcella. Tyrion can imagine him, sitting alone in his study, wondering why his children, his _ pawns, _ weren’t moving as he liked. 

“There was a dozen strange _ rules_,” Shae still has her fingers pressed to her lips, “And he _ never _ wanted to see them.”

“They’re the proof he couldn’t scrub away.” _ No, he tried that, _ once, _ and didn’t dare again_.

“_Why_?”

“Why did he hide them, or why did it happen?”

_ “Both_,” she breathes.

“It’s not my story to tell. Not yet,” Tyrion answers, “Does it make you care for them less?” 

“No, I care for them as though they came from me,” Shae shakes her head. “Nothing can change that.”

Tywin certainly wasn’t thinking of Tommen and Myrcella’s comfort when he hired Shae--he was probably focused on discretion, or her ability to follow orders and keep secrets, but he’d chosen someone who would _ love _ them.

“Then they’re already better off than the three of us _ ever _were.”

Shae’s dark eyes are focused on him, like she’s trying to fit the last fragments of the story together. Instead, she leans over and kisses him.

“I’ll want the rest of the tale, later.”

* * *

The first few days are nightmarish, if Tyrion is being honest, which he usually is.

As Sandor promised, Uncle Kevan _ does _ return the next day. Shae is chasing Tommen and Myrcella around the front garden when Tyrion comes to the horrible realization that Uncle Kevan probably has _ no fucking clue _ they exist.

“Take them _ inside_,” he says to Shae when Kevan’s carriage nears the gate--the children can’t be _ anything _ other than Lannisters, and as funny as it would be to tell his uncle, “oh, they’re mine!” the idea is a terrible one.

Shae is _ very _fast, and ushers the children in a side door to the house before Kevan climbs out of the carriage, their father’s sister Genna following him out.

“We’ll inter Tywin in the family mausoleum three days hence,” Kevan tells them when everyone is seated in the front parlor. “Today, though, we need to go over the inheritance.”

Tyrion wonders if Jaime and Cersei feel as much like children as he does, sitting in a line on a brocade couch waiting for gifts to be doled out.

“Jaime,” Uncle Kevan says, “as the eldest, would you like to do the honors?”

Cersei is making to eviscerate poor Uncle Kevan for his remark at Jaime being the eldest.

Aunt Genna stands, then, and plucks the will from Kevan’s hands, “Cersei’s the eldest, you fool, and we’ll be here until we need buried next to our brother if you let Jaime read the will. Tyrion, you should read it--you’re more Tywin’s son than either of your siblings.”

Tyrion’s not certain what she means by that, or if he likes the implication, but he does as Aunt Genna bids him. Everything goes to Jaime, as predicted.

“Why even _ have _ a will?” Aunt Genna mumbles when everything is said and done.

Jaime laughs, “So you’d _ know _ that you were slighted, of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm struggling a bit with the tags for this story. There's upcoming content that I feel compelled to warn for, but I also don't want to spoil the entire mystery by slapping it in the tags. 
> 
> Reviews motivate me to keep torturing the poor Lannister siblings!


	5. you can't choose what stays and what fades away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Did you really see our mother?” Jaime whispers, “Or was that just your conscience gnawing at you?”_
> 
> _Of course, Jaime’s query is met with silence._
> 
> _“Mother,” he tries again; if he’s going to see a ghost, he’d rather it be her, “What do you think of the wreck we’ve become?”_
> 
> _Joanna, of course, is dead, and doesn’t hold a single answer for him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I am going to stick to a Thursday update schedule for this from this point on.
> 
> This is the last chapter with the split narrative. Everyone will be at Casterly Rock next chapter, which mean shit is gonna get serious!
> 
> This week's chapter title comes from the Florence + the Machine song "No Light, No Light."

Sansa spends most of their train ride reading--she starts with a book on followers of the Lord of Light, then a book on ghosts, and by the second day she’s reading a murder mystery that will cetainly have no value to the case at hand.

Their cabin is comfortable enough. Sansa looks content, lounging on the top bunk with her stack of tomes. Brienne has to sleep with her knees tucked against her because the bed is too short, but that’s not really a fair metric to judge the accommodations on. She’s too big for nearly _ every _ space.

“Have you ever been this far west?” Sansa asks on the second afternoon, peering down at Brienne. She’s upside down, and her red hair tumbles over the edge of the bunk.

“I’ve never been further west than King’s Landing.”

“That’s not _ west _ at all!” 

“Storm’s End was the furthest I’d been from home before I left Tarth.”

“I’d barely left Winterfell before, too,” Sansa climbs down the ladder and sits next to her.

Brienne is continually impressed by the younger woman’s ability to move in her dresses; she would have stepped on the hem halfway down the ladder and crashed through the floor of the train. Sansa’s latest round of dresses _ are _ simpler, though--the hems are shorter and there’s less heft to the skirts.

“Have you read anything that might be of use to us?”

“No,” Sansa blushes, “And I got distracted by a novel. It had a ghost, at least…”

“Sansa, you _ know _there’s no ghosts.”

“There _ might _ be,” Sansa argues, “In the North, sometimes the trees in the godswood talk to us, or send us dreams. Is it so different that a spirit might want to communicate from the beyond? Or have unfinished business?”

Northerners always struck Brienne as particularly superstitious--it’s one thing to pray to the Seven in a sept, or even to visit the godswood, but Brienne isn’t sure she _ believes _ any of it. The dead are _ dead_, and dreams are just that--dreams. The mind’s way of working through excess thoughts.

She doesn’t want to hurt Sansa’s feelings, though--not when Sansa is her first friend and looks so _ excited_. “I’ll believe the ghost when I see it,” she replies.

Sansa smiles at her, “Now _ that _I do believe.”

She resumes reading, but stays seated next to Brienne; it makes the bunk more crowded, but the companionship is nice. Brienne lets her mind wander as she stares out the window--the entire assignment is too vague for her liking. 

What are they even investigating?

No one seems to think Lord Twyin was _ murdered_, which means his death isn’t a crime, which means it’s outside of her purview. Cultists could be disruptive, but Jaime Lannister needn’t let them into Casterly Rock. He was the lord, now. Had Marbrand just been trying to rid his office of them? No, he’d sounded concerned--_check on my friend,_ he’d all but said. 

Brienne’s mind wanders to Jaime Lannister, waiting at the end of this long, long train track and she feels grumpy.

_She’s collecting statements--a simple task, perfect for a rookie: talk to people, make some notes, and pass the details onto a higher-ranked person._ _Only Brienne bumbles her way through every interaction and stammers trying to get the right questions out. She’s interviewing palace guards, too, who really should be the easiest to talk to for someone from the City Watch._

_ How is she going to take statements from regular people if she can’t even manage to talk to guards? _

_ “What am I even looking at?” _

_ Since she’s the only person in the vicinity, the voice _ must _ be talking to her, so Brienne looks up. The man walking toward her isn’t a person she’s spoken to, but there’s no mistaking him--women across the city, and maybe throughout the Seven Kingdoms, swoon about him. _

_ “Brienne of Tarth,” she stumbles, “I, um, I’m with the City Watch.” _

_ If _ only _ her bumbling had anything to do with how handsome everyone found him; then, she could make friends and talk about it with them. She can see why ladies look at him, as long as he isn't talking. He looks like a fairytale prince from a story of old--all golden and finely crafted. _

_ Jaime Lannister laughs, and Brienne winces. _

_ “I don’t mean your name,” he says, grinning, “Are all the women with the City Watch like you?” _

_ “I’m...not sure if there are any others, ser.” _

_ “If you’re what they’re looking for, wench, then I can see why there’s few.” _

Brienne must be scowling because Sansa flicking her between the eyes is what rouses her from her thoughts

“_Ow_.”

“You looked like you were thinking very deeply about something that was making you cross,” Sansa explains.

“Just a memory,” Brienne answers, hoping Sansa will take her vagueness at face value.

“Can I guess?” Sansa closes her book with her hand still in it to mark the page.

“I’d prefer if you didn’t.”

“Considering where we’re going,” Sansa’s voice takes on a tone that Brienne _ knows _ is how she sounds when she’s thinking aloud. “I _ bet _ you’re thinking about how annoying you think Ser Jaime is. You’re probably dwelling on one specific interaction.”

“..._ Sansa_.”

“But you’re polite,” she continues, twirling a lock of her hair around her hand, “and you’re wondering about the niceties of intruding on a grieving family.”

“...Am I so utterly transparent?”

“Yes,” Sansa answers with no hesitation. Then, she hands Brienne one of her novels, “Read this; it’ll pass the time.

Brienne sighs, but does as she’s told.

* * *

_ Day three. Morale at Casterly Rock continues to decrease_.

Tyrion scratches the words on a spare piece of paper, smirking at it afterwards.

_ We make quite the maudlin group. Father deserves the three of us wandering the house like spectres, as we wait to put him in the ground. We don’t want to be alone, but we don’t want to be together, which makes the evenings entertaining. _

He taps the back of pen against the paper--this is a stupid venture anyway, scribbing down his thoughts. He could be raiding the wine cellar, or rolling around in bed with Shae. Or _ both_. 

Tommen and Myrcella occupy most of Shae’s time. Cersei looms in doorways, staring at them longingly, which is more off-putting than the children themselves. For all that Tommen identified Cersei as _ mother, _ they watch her, wary-eyed, and hide behind Shae. Tyrion understands Cerisei’s goal--she wants to know them, and her jealousy that Shae _ does _is practically tangible.

It’s not Cersei they run across the yard to meet, laughing.

“This house is _ designed _ to break us,” he tells Jaime on the morning before Tywin’s funeral. He cracks his spoon again the shell of the soft-boiled egg he’s eating, cutting into the white and letting the yolk pour out. “This spoon is Casterly Rock, and _ my fucking sanity _ is this egg yolk.”

“Apt,” is Jaime’s only reply.

“We’re our worst here,” Tyrion continues, “It’s like all of our vices and shit personality traits are under a magnifying glass. I’m having _ breakfast _wine.”

“That’s--”

“Not a daily occurance, I swear it.”

“Cersei’s...not doing well,” Jaime lowers his voice, “I heard her crying last night.”

“And you didn’t go to her?” Tyrion thinks he fails at keeping the surprise out of his voice.

“I...can’t.” Jaime stares at his mostly untouched breakfast. “I can’t comfort her, even if I wanted to. It doesn’t help.”

Jaime has this high-handed sanctimony that makes Tyrion wish, sometimes, that his brother wasn’t too tall to slap without climbing on a chair. In moments of weakness, Tyrion gives in to his desires, while Jaime will deny himself. If their positions were reversed, he might have sought solace in Cersei already, hollow as it was. Then again, Tyrion has never wanted to fuck their sister, so maybe the comparison doesn’t hold water.

Jaime’s denial, like his jealousy, are dramatic things; he spent a lot of the last two days pacing empty parlors and staring at some distant point out of a window. 

Tyrion starts laughing. “While we drown ourselves in drink, you’re going the self-flagellation approach. Would you like a hairshirt?”

“_ Someone _ has to take care of all this shit.”

“And it won’t be her,” he pushes a glass of wine at Jaime--his brother won’t take it, but nevertheless. “She’s slept into the afternoon since we’ve been here.”

“It’s not_ just _ drink.”

“I’m not unaware of our sister’s _ other _ vice,” Although, Jaime would know _ better_. “We should have left her with Robert; she can’t handle being around Tommen and Myrcella.”

“She sees them as _ hers,_” Jaime replies, “and they _ are_, but they can’t be, and it’s crushing her.”

“They’re _ yours_, too,” Tyrion answers. 

“_Don’t_.”

Another brand of denial from Jaime--if he does enough mental gymnastics, he can keep himself from being impacted by _truth_.

“Does Cersei imagine she can take them back to King’s Landing and gift them to Robert?”

Jaime stiffens in his chair, “At her least lucid, I could see that being her plan, yes.”

“That...is the worst idea _ ever._”

“Our father made choices that we can’t undo,” Jaime pushes his hair out of his face, and surprises Tyrion by taking a drink of the wine, “But how do I fix this? I can’t leave them here, and I can’t give them to Cersei.”

They’re all just children, dealing with the fallout of someone else’s decisions.

“One thing at a time, brother; I’m sure we’ll think of something once father’s safely in the ground.”

* * *

_ Of course _ it rains during Tywin’s funeral, as though the affair needed an excuse to be more pathetic. The three of them stand there, dressed in back, as sheets of rain hit their completely ineffectual umbrellas. Jaime feels the exact moment his shoes are breached and the dampness touches his socks. 

And, to top it all off, Aunt Genna paid some fucking string quartet from Lannisport to play “The Rains of Castamere” as two men from a mortuary in Lannisport seal Tywin’s casket in the family vault.

“Really?” Tyrion gives Aunt Genna a sidelong glance.

She smirks, “Don’t you think it’s what he would’ve wanted?”

Jaime looks past the event, out to the Sunset Sea on the horizon. He thought he’d feel more relieved, somehow, but, as it turns out, he doesn’t feel much of _ anything_, not grief, or anger. At their mother’s funeral, they stood on the lawn like this, but the sun shone in the sky, and people looked _ sad_. He’d held hands with Cersei, and sobbed and _ sobbed _ until he couldn’t breathe.

For Tywin, though, no one sheds a tear.

_ Tears are a mark of weakness in a man. _ His father said that, so he shouldn't expect Jaime to shed any.

“A spirited service for a spirited man,” Aunt Genna says, “We couldn’t have dreamed of anything more appropriate.”

“Well, he’s with Mother, now,” Tyrion says, “Let’s go in before we’re washed out to sea.”

The funeral isn’t the _ end _ of anything, though; it’s more of a beginning. Now, there’s no denying the responsibility he’s left with. Jaime spends _ hours _with Uncle Kevan in Tywin’s second-floor study, looking over things he doesn’t care about.

“This is enough for today,” Kevan says, “I’m sure you’re exhausted. We can pick this back up in a few days. I think we’ll need to liquidate some assets, and the mines aren’t producing what they were--”

“We can sell whatever we need to,” Jaime answers, “I don’t want any of it anyway. Casterly Rock could fall into the sea for all I care.”

Kevan looks surprised, but bids Jaime farewell and leaves the room. Jaime sits at Tywin’s desk and looks around the room before staring at the painting of Joanna above the fireplace. He thinks of Tywin’s last letter, still tucked in his suitcase.

_ I made a mistake_.

Could Tywin Lannister even _ feel _guilt?

Jaime opens all the desk drawers, pulling out journals and ledgers and folders--he’ll need to look at _ all _ of this eventually. Maybe he’ll carry a stack of it to his room; it’s not like he’s slept more than a few moments at a time since he got here--he’s not sure if any of them have. What need is there for ghosts when memories are haunting enough?

“Did you _ really _ see our mother?” Jaime whispers, “Or was that just your conscience gnawing at you?”

Of course, Jaime’s query is met with silence.

“Mother,” he tries again; if he’s going to see a ghost, he’d rather it be _ her_, “What do you think of the wreck we’ve become?”

Joanna, of course, is dead, and doesn’t hold a single answer for him.

* * *

Tywin Lannister’s death was _ news_, but Jaime’s a bit unprepared when Lord of Light followers show up at the gates of Casterly Rock the day after the funeral. Tommen functions like a tiny herald, declaring at breakfast, “We’ve guests coming up the drive--they’re here about Grandmother.”

Jaime and Tyrion freeze, listening for _ something _ \--a carriage, horses, Clegane bellowing that someone’s at the gate--but there’s _ nothing_. The only sound is the spoonful of oatmeal plopping back into Jaime’s bowl.

“_Grandmother, _” Jaime repeats.

“They _ might _believe us,” Myrcella continues.

“I believe you,” Shae ruffles Tommen’s hair.

“She told me they would come.”

_ Shae says they see things_, Tyrion told him. Tommen knew Cersei was their mother, Tywin believed them, too, from the content of his last letter. More than believe them, his father had _ seen _ the ghost of Joanna Lannister. Tyrion is right--the house is leeching the last vestiges of sanity from him. A near week of these awkward breakfasts was enough to do _ that_, ghosts be damned.

“Well, let’s go greet them and see what they want,” Jaime stands up from the table; he’d nearly eaten a full meal, which was better than yesterday.

“May we come?” Myrcella asks. From the look on her face, she expects a harsh rebuke. 

To be told _ no _ for such a simple request, to want nothing more than to go and greet people, even though they are probably strange cultists. _ It’s Tywin’s fault, but it’s also ours--I knew the risks, and I went to Cersei anyway. _ He’d thought of nothing but her after Tywin had sent him away. She’s been without him, in this fucking house, and he hadn’t seen her for _years_. 

No, his father would’ve had to kill him to keep them apart, in that moment.

_ I thought he’d let us keep them, fool as I was. _

Jaime was older now, though, and the consequences of his actions are staring up at him with matching green eyes. They don’t need to suffer as he had, to be locked away and scorned simply because they’re proof of something.

“Tell me where you want to go, and I will take you.” Tommen could say that he wanted to sail to Old Valyria to look for Brightroar, the fabled Valyrian steel sword of House Lannister, and in that moment, Jaime would have tried to find a way.

“The gate!” Tommen yells.

Well, the gate was a fine start, too.

* * *

Clegane is quite confused when Jaime tells him to go to the gate based on Tommen’s preternatural sense, but he takes a horse from the stables, returning shortly after with three riders in tow.

“Welcome to Casterly Rock,” Jaime calls out because what the fuck else is he supposed to say? He amuses himself imagining Tywin loitering at the front door like this, calling out to strangers. Tywin would never have let these people in the gate in the first place; it’s day one of Jaime’s new open door policy.

“The night is dark and full of terrors,” the red priestess calls out when the man riding beside her dismounts and helps her off her horse. “I’m Melisandre of Asshai.”

“Is that supposed to mean something?” Tyrion whispers too-loudly.

“I’m--” Jaime begins,

“Ser Jaime Lannister, of the Kingsguard, and lord of Casterly Rock,” the priestess finishes. 

“Nevermind on the introductions, then.”

Melisandre gives him a knowing smile, “The fire has already graced me with all the information I need.”

“I...can see that.” Really, he doesn't have any idea what she means by that. That the Lannisters own Casterly Rock isn’t secret knowledge. Tommen knowing she was coming was more impressive so far.

Now that Melisandre is closer, Jaime can’t help but notice how _ red _ everything about her is--from her flowing hair, to the deep crimson of her dress, to the ruby fastened around her neck. He could put her in one of the more ostentatious parlors and she would fit right in.

“This is my companion, Thoros of Myr.”

“We’ve come to investigate your ghost,” Thoros of Myr says, “Maybe perform an exorcism or two.”

Jaime can’t think of a single witty retort to answer that. Tommen and Myrcella are looking at the entire group like Jaime just took them to a faire, not let two potential charlatans through the gate.

“Is _ that_..supposed to mean something?” Tyrion repeats from somewhere behind him.

“The dead are to ascend to the Hall of Light, to sit beside the Lord,” Mellisandre looks up at the house looming behind them, “If rites are not performed, they linger in a state of malcontent.”

_ Lingering in a state of malcontent. _That sounds like a pretty fitting description of the last week.

“You can stay in the guesthouse, if you’d like.”

* * *

“You put _ cultists _in our guesthouse?!” Cersei shrieks.

“_ Jaime _ put cultists in the guesthouse; I merely observed,” Tyrion amends; he can’t help but be terribly amused at the idea of the Lord of Light followers lounging on their father’s expensive couches. An actual exorcism would have him in stitches.

“They’ll kill us in our sleep!”

“I doubt that,” Jaime says, “Although, they _ are _ fond of fire.” 

“_ Father _would never have--”

“And, why, pray tell, are we using _ that _ as any sort of metric?” Tyrion interrupts, “Have you ever, once, woken up and thought ‘doing what Father would do is a good choice?’”

Cersei balls her hands into fists at her sides, “Father kept us, and our secrets, _ safe._”

Both Tyrion and Jaime wince. _Jaime isn’t the only sibling skilled at twisting reality_ _to suit his view._

“At what cost?” Jaime asks, fishing around inside of his jacket and handing an envelope to Cersei. “He wrote me this, before he died.”

While Cersei reads, Tyrion takes the opportunity to _ look _ at her. She seems frailer than usual, her hands are shaking, and she teeters unsteadily as she reads. None of them feel _ good _ here, but she is faring the worst. If she’d listen, Tyrion would tell her to eat, and sleep; Tyrion would tell her to _ go home_, back to Robert.

“A ghost?” she looks up at the two of them. “A fucking _ ghost_?”

“Can you imagine any other impetus for Tywin Lannister to feel remorse?” Tyrion says, “Mother would have to come down from on high, look the man in the eyes, and say _ you royally fucked up_.”

“You _ believe _this?” Cersei looks between the two of them, skeptical. 

“I don’t know,” Tyrion answers.

“I believe Father believed,” Jaime says, “And Shae believes the children.”

“_Shae,_” Cersei hisses, dropping the letter, “thinks she’s their _ mother_, and seeks to keep them from me. Who knows what kind of lies she will weave to that end?”

“She’s cared for them their whole lives,” Jaime’s using the tone for when Cersei is unreasonable--calm and measured. “Of _ course _ they are fond of her; they’ve known no one else. With time--”

Cersei looks at the two of them in anguish, “And do I have _ time _?”

* * *

When Tyrion wakes, the candle beside the bed has guttered out, leaving the room lit only by moonlight filtering through the parted drapes.

_ I swore I closed those before turning in. _

He scrubs his hand over his eyes as though it will reduce the alcohol he knows is coursing through his blood stream. It does little to impact the hazy moonlight that occupies the room, throwing otherwise innocent furniture into deep, unsettling shadow. The bottle of wine Tyrion swore he left on the nightstand is cradled under his arm, uncorked and drained dry.

_ Why am I cradling wine in my arms when Shae is somewhere in this damned house? _

The space on the bed next to him is cold, though, and Shae hadn't visited him this night. Drinking alone, in bed nonetheless, is not Tyrion's highest point. He closes his eyes again, willing sleep and the coming of the morning.

“It’s not your fault.”

There’s a hand in his hair, a gesture Shae comforted him with dozens of times, but tonight, it’s not her hand. Tyrion _ feels _ the presence of another in the room, even though none had entered the door, locked as it was from the inside.

“Shae?” he whispers, because she’s the only woman in the house who would visit him in the middle of the night. 

“No, my son.”

_ That _ rouses him to open his eyes and look in the direction of the voice.

“Mother?” He doesn’t know her--his very birth denied him the chance, but there’s no mistaking Joanna Lannister. She looks like the painting above his lord father’s desk, like Jaime and Cersei, radiant and golden. _ Beautiful_. “Is this a dream?”

Joanna gives him a soft smile, “Mayhaps.”

“Father said he saw you; the children see you, too.”

“My lord husband saw, and _ didn’t see_, many things,” Joanna replies, cryptic. 

_ Why do ghosts, in dreams or in waking, always have to be fucking oblique? _

There’s a gauzy quality to her, like Tyrion’s hand would pass through her if he reached out, but he dares not. He doesn’t want to ruin the illusion, the dream of her. The hand in his hair feels corporeal, though. He’d imagined her touch for so, so much of his childhood, wondered what light she would bring to the house, to his life, if only she’d _ lived_. When he was very young, and Cersei would smooth his hair as he fell asleep, he would wonder if his mother’s touch would feel like hers.

It does, but evermore gentle; Cersei was a hard creature, even then.

“I killed you,” he whispers because even if she forgives him, it’s _ true_.

“Your life was was worth my own.”

“Father never thought so.”

When Tyrion wakes up again, or for the first time, the figure is gone, and he’s only left with the rays of morning sun filtering through the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'd love to know what everyone thought!


	6. things i can't say out loud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Brienne of Tarth.”_
> 
> _She knows that voice, said in exactly that tone and cadence. No one says her name in such a way that makes her want to strike him quite like Jaime Lannister. He’s smirking from where he’s leaning against a column at the front of the house._
> 
> _“Ser Jaime,” she responds because politeness is ingrained in her, and she won’t fall to his level, no matter how he goads her. To snap at him would be his victory--he would smirk, then laugh, then call her some unflattering name._
> 
> _“What brings you to my humble home?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, I am excited to post this chapter! A day early, too, because tomorrow is a holiday.
> 
> I think this is where the narrative really starts to come together--all the characters are accounted for and in one place, and stuff starts to unravel _and_ become more entangled. 
> 
> Chapter title comes from the Florence + the Machine song "Mother."
> 
> This chapter contains some past tense, super non-descriptive references to infanticide. It's been hinted at already in the prologue, but it's confirmed here. I don't think it's much of a spoiler, but I wanted to give everyone a heads-up.

Casterly Rock isn’t Winterfell, but as their carriage approaches it, Sansa decides that it doesn’t matter---all these old houses are the same: they’re buried in family secrets and conflict. What else could happen when generation upon generation were born, lived, and died in their ancestral seat?

When she was a girl, Sansa set out to learn Winterfell’s secrets, digging through tomes in the ancient library and asking Old Nan for every strange rumor she’d heard in her long life. None of them amounted to much--affairs, rivalries between siblings, the occassional accident that might have been murder. It was romantic, to her, to live in a house so steeped in history, and to be part of something older than herself. 

“Lord Tywin’s funeral was two days past,” Brienne has a newspaper in front of her face, “So we shouldn’t be disrupting anything.”

“I’m sure there will be _ something_,” Sansa replies, “Even if we don’t know what it is.”

“I’m not convinced this isn’t foolish.” Brienne had repeated that sentiment at least twice a day since they’d left King’s Landing. “Or rude, or _ both_.”

“Perhaps Ser Addam just wanted to get us out of the city; we’re making everyone look like layabouts with our arrest record and efficiency.”

To Sansa’s surprise, Brienne chuckles; although, she hides her face behind the newspaper as she does it. Sansa smiles out the window; getting Brienne to laugh is a victory in itself. She’s probably embarrassed about it, red-cheeked under her freckles.

The drive to Casterly Rock is long and winding, just enough time for a visitor to become intimidated by the expanse of it. The gate is open, and a gruff-looking man is leaning against it.

“_More _ fucking people,” his voice is as gruff as his appearance, “The brat was right, though. Fucking eerie, that’s what it is.” When he moves away from the gate, Sansa notices half of his face is brutally scarred; she hopes her expression stays neutral.

Brienne climbs out of their carriage first, looking for all the world like she’d been folded in half and stuffed in a box. She attempts to straighten the jacket of her uniform, but it’s beyond saving. Sansa will iron it, later; surely there’s an iron somewhere in Casterly Rock, provided Ser Jaime doesn’t send them straight back to Lannisport when he realizes why they’ve come.

“Who the fuck are you?” 

“Brienne of Tarth, my lord, with the City Watch. This is Sansa Stark, my--”

The man laughs, a barking sound that makes Sansa flinch, “I’m no fucking lord, no more than _ you _ ’ _ re _ a lady. I’m Clegane, the groundsman.”

“Brienne _ is _ a lady, though,” Sansa chimes in.

“I’m to escort the two of you to the house,” Clegane says before climbing back on his horse.

“Was our arrival announced?” Brienne asks, confused.

Clegane laughs again, “You could say that.”

Sansa and Brienne exchange a glance.

* * *

“Brienne of Tarth.”

She knows _ that _ voice, said in exactly that tone _ and _ cadence. No one says her name in such a way that makes her want to strike him quite like Jaime Lannister. He’s smirking from where he’s leaning against a column at the front of the house.

“Ser Jaime,” she responds because politeness is ingrained in her, and she won’t fall to his level, no matter how he goads her. To snap at him would be his victory--he would smirk, then _ laugh_, then call her some unflattering name.

“What brings you to my humble home?”

_ There’s nothing humble about this house, or you_, Brienne wants to say. She can feel Sansa staring at her back. “Ser Addam sent me, _ us_, I mean, Lady Sansa and me, to investigate your lord father’s death.”

“A house call!” He laughs, and she hates the sound. “Well, you’re a bit late to the party; he’s been in the ground for a while now. Not that it was much of a soiree to speak of.”

Brienne thinks of her own father, and how she would feel if he died, the hollow ache his absence would leave in her life. Did Jaime Lannister not mourn his father _ at all_? Positions reversed, Brienne knows she wouldn’t be able to jest.

“This isn’t a pleasure visit,” Brienne answers, scowling.

“Certainly not,” Jaime bounds down the steps two at a time. “Lady Brienne of Tarth does _ nothing _for pleasure, only duty.”

She wishes, if only for a day, that Jaime knew how it felt to be as ungainly and awkward as Brienne feels in that moment. To know what it’s like to have this golden fool of a man hopping down the steps of his ridiculous house _ laughing _at her. He’s certainly never had to think about anything beyond how many ladies he has to shake off as he walks through the streets.

Brienne has no idea what to say to him, so she stares at his hair, a better target for her eyes than the rest of his smirking face. 

“Lord Jaime,” Sansa interjects, and Brienne could hug her for her social graces. Even calling him _ lord _is probably intentional, to appeal to his ego. “We’ve traveled a long distance, as you surely know. We’d appreciate your hospitality.”

“Lady Sansa, Casterly Rock is the least hospitable place in Westeros,” Jaime answers, “but, certainly, you are welcome to stay. There are _ many _ empty rooms that want for people.”

A sort-of shadow passes over Jaime’s features, gone before Brienne can make sense of it. 

Clegane drags their bags (well, two are Sansa’s and one is Brienne’s) out of the carriage. Then, the driver turns the horses around and heads back to the gate.

“Thank you, my lord,” Sansa replies, and Jaime takes hand, escorting her up the steps to the front door. 

“Lady Brienne?” Jaime holds out his other hand to her.

“I can go up steps alone, thank you,” she answers; then she does.

Brienne’s in the front door, staring at the opulence of the foyer, when she hears Sansa say to Jaime, “What rooms have ghosts been seen in?”

“Every room _ I’ve _ been in, Lady Sansa,” Jaime answers, and Sansa giggles.

* * *

That night, after Brienne of Tarth and Sansa Stark are lodged in guestrooms down the hall from his own, Jaime sits on the bed reading through Tywin’s ledgers by lamplight. There’s nothing of note so far--Tywin kept reports more than journals, and Jaime is skeptical about uncovering some buried writings about his father’s heart.

No, the letter was the closest he’d ever seen to that.

Dinner was a strange, surreal affair. Brienne was completely silent, only speaking when spoken to, and Sansa had been more engaged in her conversation with Thoros about red priest rituals than Jaime was entirely comfortable with.

“Do you plan on letting the entirety of Lannisport into the house?” Tyrion had whispered to him in the hallway after Shae had taken Tommen and Myrcella up to bed.

“And if I do?”

“Make the house a fucking circus if it’s your wont,” Tyrion answered, “but have you thought about _ why _ you’re doing this? Or the consequences?”

_ Consequences. _

So, Jaime thinks about the _ why _ of it as he tries to glean some meaning from Tywin’s reports of the gold mines the family owned; distractions came easily when the content was so dry. He can hear Cersei in his head, saying _ you’re opening us up to scrutiny_.

And, then, Jaime realizes--that’s why he let Brienne of Tarth and Sansa Stark through the gate; it’s why he let fucking Mellisandre and Thoros of Myr through the gate--

He _ wants _ to be seen.

Jaime wants to put Tommen and Myrcella before Thoros and Mellisandre and say, “These are _ my _ children; they were kept from me by my cunt of a father, but they’re _ mine_.” He wants to take Brienne and Sansa up to the fourth floor of the house, rip open a door that’s surely been closed for fifteen years, and say “We were kept here, and it was _ fucking wrong_, and it ruined us, it’s _ still _ruining us.”

If someone could _ know_, maybe they could move on, and whatever’s locked in that space could go free. Maybe he could hold Cersei’s hand like Tommen holds Myrcella’s, and it would mean only what it _ should _ mean, and not what it _ does_. 

He can’t tell anyone, though. There’s Cersei and Tyrion to consider, and they were bound by their secrets as they were bound by the house. A tomb to keep them apart from the world, long after their captor was dead.

Jaime imagines walking down the hall and knocking on Brienne’s door. What would dour, rigid Brienne of Tarth say to his tale? Would she judge him? Pity him? Comfort him? He doesn’t know her--doesn’t know _ anyone_, and no one knows him; he only knows how to bicker and agitate her. 

No, the only thing Jaime can do is open the doors and hope that someone thinks to look in the right place.

Sleep won't come for a long time, now, if it does at all, so he grabs another book from the pile and opens the cover. Jaime flips through the pages; Tywin's austere handwriting fills each one, and Jaime reads over it, word by word.

_ Before_, Tywin would make him sit with his tutor for _ hours_, pouring over his readings until Jaime was so frustrated he wanted to cry. Reading his father’s writing is doubly unpleasant--he resents Tywin _ and _ reading. 

Then, _ after_, he’d let Tyrion and Cersei do the reading, and nothing had mattered anyway. 

This one isn’t another ledger, though. The beginning is banal enough--Tywin complaining about business ventures, but halfway through, the content changes.

“He dreamed of Mother,” Jaime whispers to the silence of the room. 

Even if the visions of their mother were some subconscious manifestation of his guilt. Surely, Tywin never intended these to be read, but the torment had been enough for him to commit them to paper.

_ “I wanted security for them. Respect. To never be mocked like my own father was.” _

_ She smiles, but there is no joy in it. “For them to be lions of Casterly Rock, beholden to no one and beyond reproach.” _

_ “Everything I did was in service to that.” _

_ She looked at me, thoughtful, “But they hold no love for you, my husband.” _

The logic in the pages is so skewed that if Jaime hadn’t shouldered the burden of Tywin’s fear of weakness, he might pity the man. Every word he’d written is steeped in a lonliness Jaime knows, a solitude that Tywin forced upon them. It’s bone-deep, now, and such a part of him that Jaime doesn't know how to disperse it. The things Tywin wanted for them were so, so unimportant.

“Fuck you,” Jaime whispers to the pages, as though his father could hear him in the beyond. “It didn’t have to be like this; we just wanted you to love us.”

The worst part, though, is that through these pages, their father had thought he had.

* * *

_ Who do the children belong to? _

The thought repeats in Brienne's head as she tries to sleep that night. She flips from one side to the other, then tries laying on her back. One doesn't fare better than the other, so she just stares at the murky blackness of the ceiling and lets her mind speculate.

"Sansa," she whispers after breakfast the next morning, "The _ children_.”

"I didn’t sleep _ at all_," Sansa replies, "I've never heard _ any _ mention of extra children."

"Who do you think they belong to?"

"Well, they're _ definitely _ Lannisters--the hair."

Sansa nods, "And the eyes."

"They could belong to Ser Jaime _ or _ Queen Cersei,," Brienne guesses, "based on age, but if that's the case, why haven't we heard of them?" 

Lannister heirs would be _ known _ ; the firstborn of _ any _ of Tywin's children would be newsworthy. Tommen and Myrcella are no older than ten, although Brienne had never been skilled at guessing the ages of children; they were either babes or adults.

"Could they be Lord Tywin's?" Sansa lowers her voice even more. "With the governess, maybe?"

Brienne thinks of Shae--she sat next to Tommen and Myrcella at dinner. The children looked to her whenever they were unsure of something or needed permission, so their bond was clearly close. 

"Genetics," Brienne shakes her head, "If Shae was the mother, they'd have dark hair, or her eyes."

Sansa halts mid-step, and looks around before pulling Brienne into a hopefully empty room. It's yet another parlor of some sort, a relic of a time when people needed a dozen parlors. The room _ is _empty, though, and Sansa sits on a couch that’s covered in a cloth, the red and gold brocade beneath is just visible.

"So not Shae, then."

"This... isn't what we're here to discern," Brienne furrows her brow, "We're being nosy."

"Investigating _ is _ being nosy," Sansa argues, "We don't know what information matters."

"We're here to investigate Lord Tywin's death, not dig into Lannister family secrets."

Now Sansa is scowling, "What if the two are related?"

"Lord Tywin died of heart failure."

"_Poison_."

"There was _ no _ sign of that!"

“….Undetectable poison, then."

"_Sansa_."

"Then maybe the ghost murdered him!"

Brienne presses her fingers against her temples, "That sounds ridiculous; do you know that?"

"This house is _ strange_, though," Sansa stands up and paces the room, running a finger over a dusty table and sticking it in Brienne’s face. "No one has been in this room in _ years_. Did you see the gardens? They're completely overgrown."

"Maybe Lord Tywin didn't care about the gardens," Brienne puts up a feeble argument.

"Tywin Lannister not caring about appearances?" Sansa puts her hands on her hips. 

“They do seem like...an image conscience family.”

“Have you _ seen _ Ser Jaime?” Sansa smiles wistfully, “ _ Everything _ is bespoke, the finest. Queen Cersei, too. Image is power. Where do think they got that from?”

She rolls her eyes at Sansa’s evaluation of Jaime’s image, “Foolish, but accurate.”

"Then _ why _ does this house look abandoned, except for a few rooms? Winterfell is smaller than Casterly Rock, but we have five times as many servants. There's bannermen, and visiting cousins."

"Evenfall is like this," the dust on everything immediately felt familiar to her. "Not the color palette, but the _ atmosphere_." Her father spent her childhood mourning her mother, and life never really returned to the house. Brienne remembers empty rooms upon empty rooms--it’s one of the reasons she left.

"Lord Tywin was a widower, alone in this house, with his children grown and away."

"Like my father, after mother died. He never remarried, but that doesn't mean he doesn't seek companionship."

“Maybe he took a lover, and the children are a product of that? Why would he need to keep them a secret, though? Tommen and Myrcella wouldn't impact inheritance”

"Where is this lover, then, if she’s _ not _Shae?"

"Deceased?" Brienne guesses.

"A Lannister bastard wouldn’t be the end of the world,” Sansa stops, staring out the window at an overgrown garden, “We’re missing something. Can’t you _ feel _ it?”

“I need evidence, not a hunch.”

The sigh that leaves Sansa is exasperated, “Then I’lll find you some. Point me in a direction.”

“_ You _ could try asking.”

Sansa’s tone is sarcastic when she replies, “That’s a _ brilliant _ idea, Brienne. Just walk up to one of them and say ‘spill your family secrets!’”

* * *

Shae visits him again that night, and Tyrion welcomes her. As it was before he left, her touch is a respite in this house, made even more overwhelming by his father’s death. He can forget himself in her, more familiar than any other woman he’s been with since. 

“You’ve returned,” he tells her when she appears in his bed just after midnight.

“Of course,” she smirks, sliding under the linens and reaching for him. It’s easy, to touch her, to make her gasp and move closer. Tyrion makes up for all his other deficiencies with _ skill_. Even the Imp can be a competent lover with enough practice. Or, perhaps it’s only that the people he fucks are paid to react, to not notice what he _ is_.

Not Shae, though--there’s a genuineness to her tonight, and every other night she’s graced him with her appearance. 

“You always had good taste,” he whispers to her in the darkness, and neither of them speak for a long time.

After, Shae turns to him in the candlelight and asks, “How are you, my lord?” 

The question, part of a greeting, sounds strange _ after_.

“As well as can be expected,” Tyrion answers, “Better, for your presence. I’m not inclined to sleep, regardless, so I might as well be occupied.” 

“It’s the house,” Shae looks around at the darkness of the room, “Lord Tywin didn’t sleep much, either. He would pace his chambers at night, unable to rest.”

Her wording rankles something in Tyrion, “Are you…intimately familiar with my late father’s sleeping habits?”

Shae stills completely--only her dark-eyed gaze shifts away from Tyrion. “Lord Tywin was a lonely man, and there’s no one else here.”

“So you_ fucked _ him?”

_ Deny it_, he thinks, _ Tell me I’m wrong, be aghast at the insinuation_.

“You know what this house is like.”

Tyrion _ does _ know, better than Shae _ ever _ could; he was born here, in this crypt of a home bereft of affection. Being a Lannister comes at a price, and Casterly Rock exacts its toll on all of them. Even with their father’s death, the house lives on.

“My father is _ why _ the house is as it is,” Tyrion snaps at her, “And he deserved _ no _comfort.”

“You weren’t here with him.”

“Of course I wasn’t. He fucking_ cast me out_.”

Desire for Shae seems anathema to Tyrion, suddenly, like the extinguishing of light--immediate and absolute; the house had too little light as it was. _ What else can Father take from me? _ It was unfair, in a way, to be angry with her--there were no promises between them.

And yet, angry he was.

“You’ve been gone for years,” Shae reaches to touch his hair, and Tyrion recoils. “Was I expected to be--”

_ Faithful_.

“No,” Tyrion never expected _ that_, and he certainly hadn’t been, “but it didn’t occur to me that you would _ fuck my father_.” He doesn’t want to share a woman with his father in any context, but _ especially _ not when his father is Tywin Lannister.

“It’s lonely here,” Shae whispers, “There’s only the children, and I love them, but…”

Even if Shae’s feelings are reasonable, Tyrion can’t hear them--maybe, in the future, he’ll understand, but right now he doesn’t want to. “You _ knew_, though--you saw how he treated me, and yet, you _ still _\--”

“Does this change…?”

Shae didn’t love him, but she _ wanted _him, and her desire was something that was his, unbought and with no burden attached to it. Tyrion feels the end of it like a physical wound.

“Yes,” Tyrion says, “and you should go.”

She doesn’t answer, but she leaves him alone in the darkness.

* * *

“Lady Stark.”

A petulant, childish part of Sansa wants to ignore the voice calling her name. She hears her mother, the _ real _ Lady Stark, chiding her in her mind, so she stops and turns to the sound. The voice calling her name is that of Tyrion Lannister. He’s sprinting to catch up with her, which she thinks is quite a feat, given the length of his legs.

_ The Imp_, she’s heard him called. _ The Halfman. _

The only other fact Sansa knows is that he has a reputation for being quite promiscuous. Does it run in the family? Ser Jaime was unwed, but never seemed to want for willing, highborn women fawning over him.

“Lord Tyrion, good afternoon,” Sansa calls back once he reaches her. They’re on the second floor of the house, nearing the stairwell she assumes goes up--there’s four levels, if her memory from yesterday serves her.

He looks up the stairs for a second long enough for Sansa to notice. “Taking a tour of our illustrious home? In leaner times, we might sell tours to the smallfolk to earn extra coin.”

_ He’s caught me_. She wasn’t snooping, but she _ was _ looking--although for what, Sansa couldn’t say. She meant to take the house in and, maybe, something would strike her.

“Would you like to narrate for me? I’m sure, as the son of Lord Tywin, you’ve knowledge of all sorts of secrets.” Sansa smiles at him--let him think her a pretty, dumb thing, born to flatter men.

“Oh, Lady Stark,” Tyrion smiles in return, “I might as well be a bastard for all my father doted upon me. Nevertheless, I might be able to steer you in a good direction.”

_ Or away from direction you don’t want me to go_.

“Please, call me Sansa. Lady Stark is my mother.”

“As you wish, Lady Sansa.”

They walk, and Tyrion narrates the rooms they pass, regaling her with banal details of paintings of ancestors and swords and trinkets. “Legend says Brightroar graced that mantle, once,” he tells her when they’re in a large drawing room with windows that face the sea. There’s more light in this room than any other she’s been in.

“Valyrian steel,” Sansa replies.

“The lady knows her swords.”

“My partner is fond of them,” she reaches into the pocket of her dress lining and pulls out her knife, “Although, I think I could stab someone if I had to.”

Tyrion laughs, and Sansa can’t help but think it’s a pleasant sound. When Ser Jaime laughs, he sounds like it’s a thin veneer; what lies beneath it, she couldn’t say. They’re brothers, but Tyrion sounds more genuine.

“Your partner. How does Sansa Stark end up in this line of work?”

Sansa pauses, wondering if she should downplay her efforts. She’s come to realize she’s clever, and can think quickly enough, sometimes, to steer a conversation where she likes. Tyrion’s expression says he thinks he can out match her.

“I was a typist, in the City Watch central office,” she answers, “Brienne thought my talents were wasted getting coffee for old men.”

“And what _ are _your talents, Lady Sansa?”

_ He thinks to fluster me_. The innuendo is there, for all Tyrion’s innocent smile. “Talking,” she looks down at him pointedly, “Getting secrets out of people.”

“Secrets,” he repeats.

“My shorthand is good, too,” a point of pride for Sansa, “I take very fast notes.”

“A useful skill, surely.”

They walk more, circling hallways that would lose Sansa if she wasn’t used to the layout of old manors. What can she ask him that will yield what she wants? She’s becoming increasingly unconvinced she can outwit him.

“Can I be frank with you, Lord Tyrion?” 

Tyrion stops, and clasps his hands behind his back. Amusingly, they’re back where they began--in front of the stairs leading up.

“Please, Lady Sansa, I do hate these veiled conversations. It’s why I comport with simpler folk.”

_ He means whores, doesn’t he? _

“Do you think there’s something suspicious about your lord father’s death?”

“Like a murder?”

“Or a ghost.”

Tyrion opens his mouth to speak, then stops himself, “I...don’t know. Mayhaps.”

_ Gods, I can’t resist a good mystery. _

“Tommen and Myrcella have seen _ something_, though?”

“You overheard them at dinner?”

Sansa smiles, “It was hard not to--they were very excited at being believed.”

“...By cultists, yes.”

“Brienne and I were trying to guess their parentage,” Sansa lowers her voice and leans forward the slightest bit. “All of our theories are wholly scandalous.”

“Are they now?”

There’s _ more _ here, she just needs to find it, to ask the right question, and it will be hers. Sansa can hear Brienne in the back of her mind, _ don’t pry_, but Catelyn Stark can use courtesy as a tool, a _ weapon_. Sansa wants to manage it, too.

“Lord Tyrion, what do the children call you?”

“They’re fond of ‘uncle.’”

“And what did they call Lord Tywin?”

Tyrion is giving her a knowing smile. She’s not outwitting him, but he’s letting her, which serves her aims. “They called him ‘grandfather.’”

_ Oh_. Sansa puts a hand over her mouth.

“And, whatever you’re imagining,” Tyrion says as he walks away from her, “The truth is worse. Good day, Lady Sansa”

* * *

Jaime picks up the journal again the next evening; he doesn’t think Tywin deserves to have his rationale explained, like it will somehow justify his actions. The journal calls to him, though, so he reads slowly along.

_ “But they hold no love for you, my husband.” _

He has to laugh at that line, although he finds it far from funny. Whether a dream, a ghost, or _ both_, their mother spoke the truth. Was _ that _ what Tywin was thinking about in his last moments?

“You’ll find no absolution from me,” Jaime says to the book, as though Tywin lives in it, “So you can keep your guilt in the afterlife.”

_ And, oh, the wailing of it--a sound that I felt deep in my bones, as if the creature was crying _ at _ me. It didn’t stir, but kept keening, and the sound echoed around the garden until I couldn’t abide it anymore, and I returned to the house, shaken. _

_ I knew, then, although I can’t say how with any confidence, who the creature was. Cersei’s sobs haunt me still. A secret like that could ruin us, and there are so many secrets, already. _

Jaime drops the book, it’s fall muted by the thick carpeting on the floor. Then, he picks it up and goes to look for his sister. She’s probably in her room, so he knocks on the door. Cersei answers, wrapped in a dressing gown and barefoot. 

“Jaime.”

Now that he’s closer, he can see that her eyes are bloodshot, and the hollows under them more pronounced than even three days past. She’d looked the most like herself while they were laying their father to rest. Now, though, she looks, again, like the house is draining her life.

“Cersei,” he answers. Jaime clutches the journal in his hand, a finger pressed to the page he wants to show her---maybe it’s not _ want _; he just feels like he ought.

“You’ve come to me,” she says, low and seductive. Not that she _ needs _ to draw him in, she never has.

“I’ve been reading through some of Father’s journal,” Jaime imagines this as a business conversation, like he’s telling Uncle Kevan about some extra money he found; it’s a nice lie.

“More of this ghost shit?” The enticement is gone, now, shifted to anger. Had her moods been this ephemeral when they were children? Jaime can’t recall--Cersei, as she is now, is all he can remember.

“Something new,” he continues, “something I--I thought you should see.”

Her eyes widen, just a fraction, and she takes the proffered journal from Jaime’s hand. He holds his breath while she reads. _ Joffrey_, he repeats the name in his head; he’d never even _ seen _ the child, lost more than even Tommen and Myrcella.

“Joffrey,” Cersei echoes his thoughts aloud. The name, spoken, makes him real in a way Jaime never felt. She cries, though, tears streaming down her cheeks; her eyes never look greener than when she’s crying. “Father thought he _ saw-- _”

“Something,” Jaime repeats, useless. 

Cersei drops the book, “He was so _ small_.” She crosses the few steps between them, then presses her lips against Jaime’s.

He’s immobile, when she touches his cheek, delicate fingers gliding over his skin. He’s immobile when she presses herself against him. Jaime’s feared this moment, guarded against it with his entire being. Feared that touching her would be a chain reaction, an addiction he couldn’t stop.

It isn’t, though; he puts his hands on her shoulders and gently pushes her back with little difficulty. The relief he feels is sweet and tinged with guilt.

“We can’t.”

_ “Why_?” she hisses, “Father is dead; who’s to stop us?”

“I am.”

Cersei still has tears streaming down her face, but her features are contorted in anger, now, “You were probably _ glad _when Father took him. He set you free after that.”

“_Glad_?” he repeats, realizes he’s yelling. “Why would I have been _ glad_?"

"Because _ you _got to go off and play at being a knight, while I was confined here with Father and Tyrion."

That Cersei would resent him for that shouldn't come as a surprise, but Jaime still feels as though she slapped him.

"I wasn't_ playing_," he doesn't bother to hide his anger, "And I thought about you endlessly. I should have killed Father, I should have run away with you. I should have done _ something_."

_ We were just children _ he wants her to say. Once Jaime came to terms with being unable to rescue her, he'd thrown himself into becoming stronger. If was strong, he could protect her. It imbued his days with purpose for all the time he was apart from her.

"I needed you, and you weren't there," she whispers, "I need you now, and you aren't here."

"I'm here."

"As what, Jaime? You're my other half."

Jaime wasn't that--he was himself, whole and his own, as wretched as that felt. He won't correct her though, not when she's walking away from him, to the tin on her nightstand.

"As your brother," he finally answers, and leaves the room before she can respond, before he can watch her damage herself even more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's interacted with this fic in any way. You all are the best!
> 
> Should you be interested in writing updates and fandom screeching, I can be found on tumblr @ kurikaesu-haru.


	7. i can see it coming from the edge of the room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sansa decides to spend their second day inquiring after their fellow guests. After a strange, but interesting dinner spent talking with Melisandre of Asshai and Thoros of Myr, the two of them seem like her best chance at actually determining if there’s a ghost._
> 
> _Brienne is completely skeptical, and nothing except irrefutable, tangible proof will sway her otherwise. Sansa’s heard whispering in the godswood at Winterfell, though, and felt cold spots in the family crypts. Maybe it’s part childish imagination, but she wants to believe._
> 
> _If ghosts are real, Casterly Rock looks like where they’d be._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have much to say in the way of notes this week, other than thank you for all the kind words and kudos!
> 
> The botchling mythos is TOTALLY lifted from _Witcher 3: Wild Hunt_. You can read about it in the context of the game [here](https://witcher.fandom.com/wiki/Botchling), if you're so inclined. It's a pretty graphic-looking monster, so don't click if you don't want to see a hideous mutant baby thing.__
> 
> _ _This week's chapter title comes from the Florence + the Machine song "Breaking Down."_ _

Sansa decides to spend their second day inquiring after their fellow guests. After a strange, but interesting dinner spent talking with Melisandre of Asshai and Thoros of Myr, the two of them seem like her best chance at _ actually _ determining if there’s a ghost.

Brienne is _ completely _ skeptical, and nothing except irrefutable, tangible proof will sway her otherwise. Sansa’s heard whispering in the godswood at Winterfell, though, and felt cold spots in the family crypts. Maybe it’s part childish imagination, but she _ wants _ to believe.

If ghosts are real, Casterly Rock _ looks _ like where they’d be.

Melisandre and Thoros are surveying the first floor of the house; Sansa trails behind them, asking questions as they enter her mind. Thoros is the more gregarious of the two, so she directs her queries at him.

“How did you become a red priest?” Sansa starts with biographical questions, just as she would if interviewing witnesses at a crime scene. The more she knows about the person, the better questions she can ask. 

“My father gave me to the temple when I was a boy,” Thoros answers, “I’m the youngest of eight, so by then he was sick of having so many mouths to feed.”

Thoros is a fat man, but tall, and he’s always carrying a flask of wine. When Sansa thinks of priests, septons are what comes to mind, and Thoros looks _ nothing _like a septon. “Pious” would not be word she used to describe him.

“So you grew up in one of R’hllor’s temples?”

“In Myr, yes. I was sent to King’s Landing to convert King Aerys to the red god. With his love of fire, we thought it might work.”

“It didn’t,” Sansa answers, scribbling notes down as she speaks.

“That it didn’t,” Thoros says, “when Robert became king after the rebellion, he kept me around as a novelty. I use a sword coated in wildfire at tourneys. It adds a little something to the red priest mythos.” 

“So your sword _ isn’t _ magic?”

Thoros laughs, "It wasn't then, no.”

Melisandre is ahead of them, opening the doors to every room she passes and waving a censer on a chain into each empty room. All the rooms look the same--dusty with furniture covered in white cloth, unused for years. The cloying smell of the incense lingers behind Melisandre, and makes Sansa feel lightheaded.

“What...is she doing?”

“Cleansing the rooms of negative energy,” Thoros explains, “the incense allows her to sense any maleficent presence in the room.”

“So…Lady Melisandre thinks the ghost is...evil?”

“Mayhaps.”

It’s the first time Melisandre has spoken directly to her, so Sansa walks over to the door the priestess is in front of. It’s another drawing room with a painting of some golden-haired, green-eyed Lannister ancestor on the wall. _ Everyone of these rooms is the same. How do they not get lost in this house? _

“Why?” Sansa asks, holding her hand over her mouth now that the censer is so close.

“Tywin Lannister was not a beloved man,” she responds, leaving the door open and moving down the hall. “His children are estranged, and this house is not content. Can you not feel it?”

Sansa closes her eyes, not really knowing what she’s supposed to feel. “There’s no life in this house,” she says, repeating what she’d told Brienne their first day here. “It feels like a crypt.”

When she opens her eyes, Melisandre is giving her an enigmatic smile, “It _ is _ a crypt, in a way, is it not? How many Lannisters have lived and died in these rooms? Their feelings, motivations, they _ linger_.”

“And their bodies are _ literally _interred on the grounds,” Thoros chimes in.

“Have you...noticed anything here, yet?”

“Yes,” she reaches up and touches the ruby at her throat, “but I’m trying to drown out the noise. There’s _ something _here, but I know not yet what it is. Not all spirits need sent on, some watch over us as guardians.”

“In the North,” Sansa says, “we believe the old gods visit us in the godswood, and that the weirwoods influence our dreams. Can the dead do that?”

“They can, child,” Melisandre reaches out and touches Sansa’s hair, “and the fire tells us things.”

Sansa thinks of Melisandre the night before, staring long into the fireplace of the dining room; she’d stood behind, looking too, and seeing nothing, only dancing flames in shades of red and orange.

“And...what did the fire tell you last night?”

Melisandre points one elegant finger upward to the ceiling, “To turn our focus to the top of the house; there, we might find the secrets it keeps.” 

* * *

Tyrion considers telling Jaime about his dream of Joanna, but both times he opens his mouth to do it, the imagined conversation is so foolish that he halts.

_ Mother visited me in a dream. _

_ Ah, you’re losing your faculties like Father did near the end. _

No, Tyrion has internalized the guilt of their mother’s death. Her visiting him in a dream is his subconscious trying to absolve himself of the feeling because Tywin tried to do the same. He isn’t pleased with his mind for using the same methods Tywin had, but dreams are beyond his control.

Nevertheless, Tyrion _ wants _ to see her again. So, he tries to repeat the conditions in which the event occurred. He drinks, alone in his room, and _ waits _ for his mother to visit him. In a dream, or in reality--it doesn’t matter. He feels pathetic, to wish for her to touch his hair again, to make up for her presence denied by his birth.

This time, he _ thinks _ he’s awake--he’s not Jaime, he’d never dream about something as banal as the business ledgers his brother keeps handing him every morning. It’s a struggle to watch Jaime go through them, so Tyrion shoulders more than half the task, and it leaves him exhausted and ready for alcohol by midday. Nevertheless, he continues the work into the night, reading numbers by candlelight and imbibing cup after cup of wine until he gets his wish.

She’s less corporeal this time--a shade near his slightly ajar bedroom door. Tyrion _ feels _ something, first, a gentle presence that he’s unsure if he would notice without the occurrence of the dream. He sees it out of the corner of his eye, first; then turns to look at the dark hallway outside the door head-on.

The moon is full, tonight, and filters through the windows creating enough light to guide him as he follows the specter, follows what he _ wants _ to see. It doesn’t look like their mother, this time, but somehow, Tyrion _ knows_. Wobbling from the wine, he hops down from the desk chair, and follows the presence into the hall. His steps are shaky, but he’s used to this by now. 

Drink kept the ghosts at bay, but tonight he wished that alcohol would bring them to him. Or, one ghost specifically. 

“Mother?” he says it more to himself, like speaking will confirm that he’s in the waking world.

Of course, the ghost doesn’t reply, just moves at an even pace down the hall before him. Tyrion follows, hands against the wall to steady himself, but can’t seem to catch up, no matter how he quickens his pace. They turn a corner, then another--the house seems larger, more labyrinthine. The doors are endless, blurring together as he passes then. No hallway in Casterly Rock is this eternal, Tyrion knows, but he follows the specter regardless. 

Tyrion stops at the base of the stairway where he found Sansa the day before. Or, perhaps his dream version of the staircase. He was so confident he was awake, before.

_ Lady Sansa was thinking of going up_; _ I narrowly stopped her. _

The specter ascends the stairs, leaving Tyrion’s view at the first landing. 

“Do you want me to follow?” he asks to the dark, and the silence.

They’ve been here for over a week, and none of them have gone past this stairway. Up are there childhood rooms, and mother and father’s rooms. And, beyond that--

Tyrion gulps, and puts a hand on the thick wooden railing. He can’t explain it, but there’s a gentleness in Joanna’s unspoken request, like she wants him to ascend the stairs for his own sake. 

Or, he’s losing his fucking mind--equally plausible.

She’s waiting, at the top. Tyrion remembers the layout of the floor, somehow. The carpet is heavy with dust under his feet. The space feels more like a tomb than the rest of the house, if that’s even possible. Moonlight from the open drapes illuminates his course. He creeps along, silently, wondering what other ghosts, literal or figurative, his presence is stirring up. The alcohol thrums through his system.

“I think I know where you’re taking me, Mother.” The words are barely audible, but to his ears, he sounds like he’s screaming.

There’s another stairway, up to the top floor, and Joanna vanishes when Tyrion gets to the foot of it. Tyrion _ feels _ her, somehow, like a hand in his hair, or an embrace, not that he’d the opportunity to receive such gestures from her. If nothing else, even if he’s hallucinating, Tyrion is grateful for that feeling, to know that she doesn’t hate him, to know what her affection felt like.

_ Cersei blamed him again, and Tyrion sits on his bed and cries until Jaime sits down next to him. _

_ “Mother loved you from the moment she knew you were coming,” Jaime whispers, “She let us touch her belly, and feel you trying to kick your way out. _

The memory is up those stairs Tyrion can’t bring himself to climb, just behind a door that he can’t bring himself to open.

“_Fine_. I hear your message,” he says to his mother, to himself.

* * *

Tyrion doesn’t sleep well, not after his midnight venture to the third floor of the house. He breaks his fast late enough that he’s alone at the table, and the cook has to make him something new. The only person probably still abed is Cersei, and she won’t join him. He could request whatever he wants, but leaves it at toast, eggs, and coffee. There’s no need to make more work for the half-dozen servants Tywin thought could effectually serve Casterly Rock. Even the influx of _ them _ was taxing--he’ll need to ask Jaime what he plans to do, long term. Maybe he’ll take care of the task himself; more servants will need to be hired.

Right now, his brother is too busy trying to keep Cersei held together to heap another task on him. The real question, the one Tyrion knows lacks a favorable outcome, is _ who’s holding Jaime together? _

The answer is no one.

“Lord Tyrion, good morning.”

He knows _ that _ voice; it’s been following him around asking him questions for the last two days. Sansa Stark sits down across from him just as he food appears at the table. She requests the same thing as him, and sips from the mug of coffee poured for her.

“Lady Sansa, you slept in today.”

She blushes, “I was up late reading.”

_ A better reason than chasing a ghost through the house_.

“A ghost story, I presume?”

“Perhaps,” she answers, stirring sugar and cream into her coffee “Although, if it’s true, there’s no need to read a story to find ghosts here.”

“_If _it’s true,” Tyrion sips his coffee.

Sansa is giving him a congenial smile from across the table, like she’s waiting for him to confirm or deny, as if Tyrion could. He could tell her about last night, about how is heart felt like it was going to hammer out of his chest as he walked up those stairs, how he can’t even find a way to tell Jaime what he’s _ increasingly _ convinced he saw.

“Melisandre and Thoros certainly seem to think there’s _ something_, and so do the children.” Sansa twirls a lock of her red hair around her hand. Her hair is _ pretty_, distractingly so; she never seems to pin all of it back, and always seems to be running her fingers through it.

“Children have fanciful imaginations.”

She smiles even wider, “Some adults do, too; you’d be _ amazed _ what the smallfolk in Flea Bottom _ think _ they see.”

The food comes, and Sansa eats her eggs in silence with her impeccable table manners. Tywin, at his stuffiest and most lucid, would have found nothing to fault in her etiquette. It’s not Sansa’s etiquette that intrigues Tyrion, though, it’s the undertone in their conversations, the things they’re talking about while _ not _talking about them; it’s the cleverness in her blue eyes.

“Would you believe me, Lady Sansa, if I told you I saw my mother on the third floor of the house last night?”

“The floor you stopped me from ascending to the other day, my lord?”

Tyrion smiles, “The very one, my lady.”

* * *

Jaime tries conceiving of a roundabout way to ask Tommen and Myrcella about _ whatever _ they and Tywin saw in on the grounds. All his ideas involve obfuscation, and if he has to be oblique about one more thing, he is going to lose his fucking mind.

So, he finds them playing outside, Tywin’s journal in-hand, and asks them.

“Grandfather saw it, too?” Tommen takes the journal from him and reads the passage. Jaime hopes he won’t flip the pages--there’s content inside that he doesn’t know how to tell either of them just yet. “It wasn’t an animal.”

“Has,” Jaime pauses, trying to decide if acknowledging the fact that they’ve seen a ghost is a good thing, “Has Mother--I mean, Joanna--has Joanna mentioned the creature at all?”

Myrcella shakes her head, “No, we tried to ask her, last time she visited, but she wouldn’t tell us.”

_ Ghost Joanna has some discretion, apparently_. They don’t need to know that Tywin thought the creature to be Joffrey, and that he was their brother, for the few hours that he existed in the world. They don’t need to know what Tywin _ did_.

“Jaime, do you want me to show you where I saw it?” Tommen asks.

“Please,” he answers, and follows the two of them through the overgrown yard.

Both of them call him just Jaime, which is fine; it’s only that Tyrion is “uncle,” and Jaime _ isn’t_. They don’t address Cersei as “mother,” which twists her face in anguish each time. It makes Jaime wonder who they think he is to them, and he’s too terrified to ask.

_ If Joanna told them about Cersei, what did she tell them about me? _

Cersei expected a bond to be intrinsic, and perhaps it’s a facet of motherhood that Jaime can’t fathom. He’s happy to earn it, though, to be something to them through effort. Regardless, they’re his wards, left to him like everything else in Casterly Rock.

If it ends at Jaime, or uncle, or goes all the way to _ father_, he’ll be grateful for it.

* * *

It becomes clear by the third day that there’s little to investigate _ other _ than the ghost. Brienne reads over the report from the coroner, and Twyin’s death really _ was _ nothing suspect. Or, nothing suspect that a doctor would pick out. Brienne can hear Sansa whispering _ ghost murder _ in her head.

The only things left to look for are ghosts, the family finances, and things that make Brienne feel impolite and nosy. 

“I’ve been talking to the staff, who are all pretty tight-lipped,” Sansa told her. “Trying talking to Clegane yourself. He told me, ‘little birds should fly back to their mothers’ and walked away.”

So, Brienne is attempting to do just that when Jaime Lannister shows up with the children in tow.

“Is this a fucking garden party I didn’t know about?” Clegane is holding a rake, although Brienne can’t fathom what he’s doing with it--all the grounds on Casterly Rock are years behind in maintenance. He could rake all afternoon and get nowhere.

“No,” Brienne says, “I was _ trying _to inquire if you’ve seen anything strange before, or after, Tywin’s death.”

“Why the fuck would I tell you that?”

“...Because I _ asked _?” Politely, too, if not overly-friendly.

Brienne looks over at Jaime with Tommen and Myrcella trailing behind him; the three of them look more at-ease with one another than before. Sansa told her that Tywin was their grandfather and the children called Tyrion “uncle.” 

How she got Tyrion to tell her all that but can’t talk to Sandor Clegane, Brienne isn’t sure.

_ Is Jaime their father? Or did Queen Cersei have an affair? _ Her marriage to King Robert was notoriously loveless, and _ his _ philandering was no secret. They had no children of their own.

She could _ ask_, and solve the mystery herself, if she were braver. 

“Clegane, answer the lady’s damn question,” Jaime interrupts.

He glowers, which is impressive given the scarring on half his face, but doesn't respond; Brienne isn’t easily intimidated, though, so she waits.

"I saw it over there," Tommen points to a shaded corner of the garden. "We were walking, and it scurried under the bushes."

Well, who needs surly Clegane when Tommen is _ offering _ information. Brienne kneels in front of him, and pulls her notebook out of her pocket.

"Can you describe what you saw?"

"It was small, and didn't have any hair. I think it had teeth, too. And it made a _ noise_."

"A fucking wailing," Clegane picks up where Tommen left off, and everyone present looks at him, “like a pissed off baby, but worse.”

“You’ve heard it?” Jaime looks completely taken aback.

“I have.”

Myrcella speaks up, “So you’ve seen it too? Tell us, please.”

“A botchling,” Clegane answers, “They’re a stupid fucking smallfolk legend, but it’s the only thing that fits what _ I _saw. And I don’t think I was drunk enough to imagine it, not that anyone around here would give a fuck if I was.”

“A...botchling?” Jaime replies slowly. “It’s--”

“A baby,” Brienne whispers, “stillborn, or improperly buried. It’s anguish makes it return as a demon. It’s an old myth; I heard it as a girl.” There’d been an old widow in a village on Tarth, and she’d gone on and on about ensuring stillborn babes were buried with proper funeral rites.

“It sounds like a load of horse shit, but I definitely saw _ something_,” Clegane gestures to the row of hedges.

“We did, too,” the twins chorus.

All the color drains from Jaime’s face.

* * *

“We need to talk,” Tyrion tells Jaime that night; they’re the only two people in the sitting room they’d bothered uncovering the furniture and dusting; the space still smells musty, and the drapes spew dust if moved too quickly. 

“We do,” Jaime agrees.

“You look _ terrible_.” 

Jaime’s hair looks like he dragged his hands through it in frustration until it’s a golden haystack, and Tyrion thinks the bags under his eyes are the worst since they’ve arrived. _ He looks like Cersei today, haggard and stretched thin. _

For all their talk of being mirrors, Tyrion always found few similarities between his siblings. 

“I feel fucking terrible,” Jaime answers, “You were right about this house and sanity.”

Jaime is twice as tall as Tyrion, so he hits his brother in the leg repeatedly until Jaime takes the hint and sits down. Then he pours them both wine and sits in the adjacent chair.

_ “Drink_, not too much, though.”

“Are _ you _ telling me to observe restraint?”

“Just this once, yes.”

Jaime sucks in a breath through his nose, “The children and Sandor saw a...monster in the yard.”

“A...monster?”

“It’s Joffrey, or, Father thought it was.”

_ Well, fuck me_. Tyrion takes a deep breath, wishing the wine would rush through his bloodstream faster. “I saw Mother, twice. The first could have been a dream, but the second wasn’t.”

“Oh.”

“She led me upstairs, to the third floor.”

“Did you….go past that?” 

Their eyes meet, and he must be wearing the same wide-eyed terror he sees on Jaime’s face.

“No, but Mother wants us to.”

* * *

Dour, humorless Brienne of Tarth uses a sword--she’s doing it presently, practicing forms on the weedy pavers of the side garden. Jaime used to practice in the exact same spot as a boy.

It's coincidence; Jaime was pacing the halls, thinking about the top floor, and botchlings, and Cersei, and _ fucking ghosts _ and stopped in a random bedroom that happened to view the garden, and there she was. He chanced repeat the route the next day, and there she was again. Watching her is a welcome diversion--he can only sort through Casterly Rock’s finances for so many hours of the morning before wants to rip his hair out. Tywin left everything in complete disarray, and even delegating tasks to Tyrion, it’s overwhelming. 

_ Everything _ is overwhelming--his siblings, _ ghosts_, his memories, the entire top two floors of the house.

It’s all a tangle he can’t sort out, but with a sword in his hand, he knows what to do. There’s _ nothing _ like the perfect clarity in his mind when holding a blade. It was _ purpose_, for all that being a real knight was nothing like the old stories. A calm satisfaction washes over him as he watches Brienne, In that moment, Jaime thinks she’s the only living being in the house doing something she _ wants _ to do. She’s graceful with the blade in her hands, so unlike when she fumbles at having a conversation.

It’s not that swords are completely out of use, the Kingsguard carry them, although Jaime could probably name the number of times he’d gotten into a sword fight in earnest in the last decade. Some City Watch carry them, or at least Jaime _ thinks _ they do; he doesn’t make a habit of paying attention to them.

Except Brienne--he’s _ definitely _paying attention to her. 

“She’s _ good_,” he says to himself on the first afternoon. 

“A creature of habit,” he said on the second afternoon. 

_ This _ is her language, and Jaime understands it perfectly because it’s his as well. Suddenly, it’s a conversation he desperately wants, _ needs _to have with her. Jaime’s feet are moving before his mind catches up; he’s going to his room, grabbing his sword, and seeing how Brienne will react to the Lord of Casterly Rock meeting her in the garden.

“Do most City Watch use a blade as you do?”

Brienne stops, mid-slash, and looks at him. Jaime did the right thing by not announcing his presence with a greeting; her expression is an unguarded one he’s never seen.

_ How did I miss how blue her eyes are? _ They look like the Sunset Sea on a fair day, like when he’d climb out onto the roof and look out beyond the wall and wonder if there was a boat that could take them away. Or, if he got enough momentum, if he could hit the water if the jumped.

“I don’t think so,” Brienne replies, watching him. “Why?”

_ Because you’re a woman, a hulking one, but still_, he almost says. A half-dozen other cruel japes could follow it, but he stops himself. “You’re good; I was...watching you from the window.”

He _might_ be hallucinating, or maybe her cheeks are flushed with exertion, but Jaime is pretty convinced Brienne is embarrassed. “You were _spying _on me?”

“...Yesterday and today, yes.” 

“_Why_?”

Jaime sounds like a fool when he replies, “It was a coincidence, and then I just kept watching.”

“I thought I had privacy,” she mumbles.

“It was only me,” Jaime replies.

_ “You_,” Brienne replies, “you, who mock me at every turn. Is that why you came here, now?”

He gestures to the sword on his hip, "I was actually wondering if you'd dance with me."

_ Gods, what a line. I sound like I'm trying to court her, not cross blades with her. _ It’s easy enough, though, to pretend like this; he’s very good and appearing the way people _ think _ he is.

"It's the only dancing I'm any good at."

There's a story behind her words, and Jaime finds himself curious. "Did you have a bad experience dancing, my lady?" 

"No," Brienne answers, "it was _ fine_, and that was the illusion."

_ That _ makes him even more curious. "Well, I will endeavor to leave a better impression."

"Don't be sore if I beat you."

_ Is that pride in her voice? _

"I won't be."

Brienne doesn't beat him, but Jaime's victory is a narrow, hard-earned thing. She's fast, faster than he assumed from just watching her. He's not sure how someone with so much power behind her strikes manages to evade him so easily, but she dodges back from him again and again.

"Who taught you to fight?" 

Brienne sidesteps him, "Ser Goodwin. He trains my father's men."

"And girls, apparently."

"If they've the aptitude."

Brienne will best him, if he doesn't strike hard enough to disarm her. She doesn't seem to tire, and definitely spends more of her work hours active than he does. Jaime’s sweating through his shirt, and she looks completely fucking composed.

When Jaime disarms her, he does so by lunging at her, hoping Brienne won’t expect it. It works--her eyes widen when he knocks into her. Jaime’s first impression is how _ solid _ Brienne is, like he’s smashed into a boulder. She topples, though, probably from the surprise, and lands with an uncomfortable _ thud _ on the pavers.

Jaime follows her down, knees hitting the ground and barely managing to avoid sprawling on top of Brienne. There’s a span of seconds where their faces are too close together, and Brienne watches him, wide-eyed.

Then, Jaime throws himself onto the ground beside Brienne and starts laughing. It bubbles out of him, practically a chuckle, at first, but it quickly grows into something he can’t control. Jaime thinks, stupidly, of Tyrion’s comment about egg yolks and sanity; it feels apt. The last vestiges of his reason are pouring out of his mind, and onto the ground where he used to practice. It’s the climax of every shit thing that’s happened since his father was found dead. Maybe it’s the climax of every shit thing _ before_, too.

It takes a minute, but Jaime realizes he’s crying, but he can’t pinpoint the moment it shifted. The sky, blue today, blurs, and he stares blankly at it. Brienne is close enough that he can feel warmth radiating off her; she’s truly a boulder now, completely still and silent.

“...Ser?” 

Jaime turns his head away from her, “It’s nothing.”

Brienne makes a very skeptical huff.

“Can we,” he starts, takes a deep breath and scrubs at his eyes with the back of his hand, “can we call a truce?”

“...Truces are built on trust.”

Her skepticism feels like a knife in his ribs; of course, no one is close enough to trust him. Even if he asks, or reaches out. “Wench, do I seem untrustworthy to you?”

“You can be...unpleasant,” Brienne whispers.

“I just _ tease _you,”Jaime says; he wipes his eyes again.

A handkerchief appears on his chest, “The City Watch joke that the Kingsguard can’t fight; that you dress in fancy uniforms and stand guard at cocktail parties.”

“It’s _ true_,” he wipes at his eyes with the handkerchief, and hates how ragged he sounds, “I mean, not completely, but there’s enough of that.”

“You don’t fight like you spend your time at cocktail parties.”

“My father...sent me away when I was fourteen; I trained with Arthur Dayne.”

That must interest Brienne because her blue eyes are peering down at him now, and he can make out all of her freckles, “The Sword of the Morning?”

“The very same.”

Brienne smiles, and the effect it has on her is immense--no one would call her beautiful, but her smile lights up her face. More importantly, her smile makes Jaime smile back. It’s been so long that his face feels like it’s made of marble.

“That must have been _ amazing_.”

“It was...the only time I’ve ever been happy, I think.” The guilt that his siblings were left _ here _ haunted him, but he’d loved learning from someone he respected; a hero in a time when heroes were a thing of the past. “I don’t have to _ think _with a sword in my hand.”

“Instinct.”

“_Exactly_.”

“I _ hate _ this house,” the words come out in a rush.

Brienne furrows her brow, “It’s your home, though.”

“It’s a _ prison._” Laying down feels too vulnerable, so he sits up. The tears are gone, but his face feels stiff and foreign to him now. “Tomorrow, can we do this again?”

Brienne is looking at him like she’s never seen him before. It’s not an important thing, not really but Jaime wants her to say _ yes_.

“I accept your truce, but tomorrow, I’ll win.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm honestly not sure what ended Robert's Rebellion in this universe, but it wasn't Jaime killing Aerys. I don't suppose it matters.


	8. there's a hole where your heart lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Brienne lays on her bed that night staring at the ceiling, and replaying her encounter with Jaime Lannister in her head again and again. Him, splayed out on the ground next to her, in tears--she’d sat beside him, frozen and unsure of what to do. Comfort him? Not everyone wants comfort, though; he might see it as pity, or unwanted from someone such as herself. What would she have done, anyway? Clap him on the back like a comrade? Take his hand? Embrace him?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have much to say this week in the way of notes. Thank you to everyone who's enjoying this fic!
> 
> Chapter title comes from the Florence + the Machine song "Third Eye."

“Sansa Stark.”

She thought the sitting room empty, so the noise startles Sansa, and she drops the book she’d been holding. The book hits the rug with a dull _ thud_, and Sansa spins in the direction of her name--the voice isn’t Shae’s slightly accented one, but it’s female, which means--

“Queen Cersei,” Sansa curtsies, bowing low as her mother taught her. Then, she bends and picks up her book. “Thank you, for allowing us into your home during your time of mourning.”

Cersei is recumbent on the room’s long couch, but Sansa spies no alcohol around her. Tyrion mentioned she did little but drink. The queen is beautiful, which Sansa knew, but there’s frailty to her that she hadn’t expected. This is the first time Sansa has been alone with her, and only the second or third time she’s even _ seen _ her.

“My fool brother let the lot of you in, not I,” Cersei answers, “So you can thank _ him _for the Lannister hospitality.”

“I did, your grace, and will do so again.”

“Father would have put a stop to _ all _of this nonsense,” Cersei almost mumbles; Sansa isn’t sure whether the comment is meant for her. “Tell me, Lady Sansa, why are you here?”

“Work, your grace. We were bid to come here, so we did.”

The queen rolls her eyes, and absurdly, it reminds Sansa of Arya, “_Work_. Women’s work is being pawns for marriage and birthing heirs. What do you _ think _ you do, Lady Sansa?”

“I help people,” Sansa replies, bristling at Cersei’s words, “Smallfolk, and people in need.”

“Who bleed the crown dry with their uselessness, almost more than my whoremonger of a husband.”

“They--” Sansa starts, unsure of how the conversation escalated so quickly.The North is different, she knows, but her father visits the smallfolk, and listens to their concerns. Cersei is the last person in the house she hasn’t spoken to, and she was hoping to ask her _ something_. 

“You play at being a man, little dove, but they’ll never see you as anything more than a pretty face, and a cunt to fuck a son into.”

Arya would scream at Cersei, no matter _ who _ she was, and her mother would say something pithy with a bite behind it. Sansa is neither of them, so she keeps her mouth shut until she figures out what to say. 

“Times are changing, your grace,” she says, eventually, “There are lots of young women in King’s Landing who are working. Many are highborn, too.”

Cersei scoffs, “A new ruse until they find husbands and quit their jobs, or are called home to their father’s choices for them.”

“I won’t go home,” Sansa blurts, “I _ like _ working, and won’t wed someone who will stop me.” She’s never actually said that aloud before, but now that she has, it feels _ good_. She doesn’t want to sit quietly at home, wife to someone like Loras Tyrell who will ignore her while he loves another. She wants a partner, when the time comes.

“The foolish wish of a girl child,” Cersei stood up and walked over to her, “You’re probably here for Jaime; he’s unwed, and newly made the Lord of Casterly Rock.”

“I’m not interested in--” 

Jaime was stunning, as beautiful as the queen in front of her; Sansa would be a fool not to notice it. Even when he held her hand to escort her up the steps when they arrived, Sansa never considered him an option. It was honestly more fun to watch him bicker with Brienne when they crossed paths in King’s Landing, not that she is going to tell Cersei that.

“You want him now, but you won’t, not once you _ know_,” Cersei gives her a smile that Sansa is terrified to know the meaning behind. “We belong to this house, and he belongs to me.”

* * *

Brienne lays on her bed that night staring at the ceiling, and replaying her encounter with Jaime Lannister in her head again and again. Him, splayed out on the ground next to her, in tears--she’d sat beside him, frozen and unsure of what to do. Comfort him? Not everyone wants comfort, though; he might see it as pity, or unwanted from someone such as herself. What would she have done, anyway? Clap him on the back like a comrade? Take his hand? Embrace him?

All three of those options seem wholly ridiculous; they don’t _ know _ each other. They exchange a few words here and there, Jaime quips and Brienne thinks of a response hours later, when it’s too late. There’s nothing deeper than that. She never considered what the currents under the surface.

Now, though, _ now _ she’s interested.

_ For the investigation_, she tells herself, _ like Sansa would do--focus on the human element, on what gets lost between the facts of it, the things that can’t be quantified, can’t be observed or recorded. _

She’s not the most adept at reading people, but Brienne has a nagging feeling that grief over Lord Tywin _ wasn’t _ at the epicenter of Jaime’s tears. He’s so flippant and caustic that she almost can’t match the forlorn expression on his face with the man she keeps running into in King’s Landing.

_ This house is a prison_.

Frustrated, Brienne gets out of bed and knocks on Sansa’s door; she’s a night owl anyway, and is probably awake reading. 

“Oh, Brienne!” Sansa says when she opens the door; her hair is in a long braid, falling over her shoulder, and she’s clad in a flowing peach robe. 

Brienne clutches her plain blue robe around her, feeling foolish suddenly. 

“Can I talk to you?”

“Always,” Sansa smiles at her and lets her in, “Business or pleasure?”

“Um,” Brienne stumbles, “Both? Neither?”

Sansa giggles and moves her book to the bedside table to make room for Brienne, who sits.

“I...crossed swords with Ser Jaime today.”

“I take it you _ don’t _mean that figuratively. Or sexually.”

“What--_ no_.”

“Is he good? I’ve heard he’s wasted on the Kingsguard,” Sansa asks two questions at once.

Brienne scowls, “He beat me.”

Sansa gives Brienne’s hand a comforting pat, “Are you sore about it?”

“_Yes_,” Brienne answers honestly, “but that’s not what’s concerning me.”

“Oh?”

So Brienne tells her the whole thing, recounts the words spoken between them and how her feelings shifted from moment to moment. It’s not a long story, but she feels oddly exposed at the end of it, and like she’s violated Jaime’s privacy, not that he’d directly trust her with a secret.

Sansa is silent for a moment, staring out the window at the blackness of the sea beyond the window. It’s open, and Brienne can hear the waves crashing into the rocks of the cliff face.

“They’re lonely,” Sansa tells her eventually, “Can’t you tell?”

Brienne can’t, actually--both Tyrion _ and _ Jaime comport themselves like it’s a performance, but what lies beneath it remains a mystery to her. 

“Not until this afternoon,” she admits, “I don’t...think he’s grieving Lord Tywin, either.”

“I think they _ hate _ Lord Tywin,” Sansa agrees. “I can’t imagine this was a friendly place to grow up.”

“Lady Joanna died when they were eight, I think,” Brienne sorts through what she remembers, “Ser Jaime said he left when he was fourteen.”

“What happened _ between _ that time?”

“They lived here, with Lord Tywin,” Sansa continues, “but what makes them hate him so? It must have happened during _ that _ span. Lord Tyrion told me _ he _ left years ago and hasn’t returned.”

“That’s right after Queen Cersei and King Robert were wed, and when Ser Jaime joined the Kingsgaurd.”

“They left together, or within a narrow span of time.”

Sansa pauses for a minute, then walks across the room and closes the window, “And if Myrcella and Tommen either come from Queen Cersei or Ser Jaime...”

_ Which one is more likely? _ Neither of them seem very close with the children, but Jaime seems to be _ trying _ to develop something with them. If they're his, that’s logical.

“I am _ still _ amazed you got that information out of Lord Tyrion.” What Sansa can get people to admit dazzles Brienne sometimes.

Sansa smiles, “He only _ alluded_. He thinks himself clever, so we keep having these veiled conversations where I’m trying to trick him into showing his hand.”

“Does it work?”

“I think he lets me win, if I’ve impressed him.”

That sounds _ exhausting_, but Sansa is smiling--she enjoys her games.

“Ser Jaime wants to meet again tomorrow.”

“_Ooooh_, are you going to go?” Sana teases. “You should; sword fighting involves lots of accidental touching.”

Brienne flushes, “_Why _ would I--?”

“--Because he’s _ beautiful_,” Sansa’s grin is even bigger now, “He _ asked _ you to come. He wants to fight you with a sword--you, a _ lady_, with a _ sword_. Could you, Brienne of Tarth, ask for a more perfect match?”

* * *

The only benefit to the presence of the Lord of Light followers in the house is imagining what his father would do if he weren’t rotting in the Lannister mausoleum. Aside from that, Tyrion has done his best to avoid them. They’re zealots, and, unlike them and the red god, Tyrion is loathe to put his faith in anything but money and alcohol.

So, when Melisandre approaches him, Tyrion isn’t looking forward to the dialogue that is certain to pass between them. Melisandre nods in greeting, the flowing scarlet of her dress trailing behind her. If nothing else, the woman is beautiful, although, Tyrion isn’t certain he’d fuck her, even if she came to him and asked. Not that he thinks she would.

“Lord Tyrion, good afternoon.”

“I thought you began every conversation with ‘the night is dark and full of terrors.’”

Melisandre actually chuckles, a low sound that’s disconcerting, considering the source, “It’s not required _ every _time.”

“Do you just repeat it for dramatic affect?”

The sly smile Melisandre answers his query with could mean _ anything_. “Followers of R’hllor only speak the truth, my lord.”

“I’m sure you think that,” Tyrion feels a headache coming on, “Just as I’m sure you’ve a reason for this conversation.”

“There is,” Melisandre looks down at him, “I’ve a Lannister family history question for you.”

“_Lovely_.”

“Thoros was speaking to your groundskeeper, Clegane.”

“Did they speak of the flaming sword Thoros used in the King’s tourneys?” Tyrion remembers the ridiculous thing, dipped in wildfire, burning for an hour or two before ruining the blade. Although, if he’s to be believed, now, there’d be no need for the wildfire. “Clegane _ loves _ fire.”

“It’s through fire we are purified; it is nothing to fear.”

“You try telling him that.” 

“They spoke of something he and the children saw in the gardens,” Melisandre points in the general direction of the side yard, red velvet of her sleeve cascading down. “Has an infant died in this house in recent memory?”

_ How can she know that? _

“I’m sure one has,” Tyrion evades the question, “Lannisters have lived here for an age, and motherhood is a dangerous profession.”

“Not just _ any _ infant death, Lord Tyrion,” she turns her red gaze upward, to the top of the house, “Unnamed or killed, perhaps, and improperly buried.”

Tyrion wouldn’t put it past Melisandre to have chosen him _ specifically _for her investigation, but he’s very grateful she came to him, and not to Cersei or Jaime--both of them would crack under Melisandre’s keen eye. 

“The children claim to see all sorts of things, my lady. They’re just flights of fancy.” He’s unsure how convinced he is of that, visited as he has been by a visage of his mother, but Melisandre needs not be privy to that. He was _ quite _ drunk on both of those occasions, and the first was surely a dream.

“And you’ve seen nothing out of place yourself, Lord Tyrion?” Her red eyes are turned on him, now, and it makes his blood run cold. 

“I wouldn’t count things seen while deep in my cups of the supernatural.” Not quite a lie, but not the truth, either.

“No? Thoros might; he spoke once of ale giving him visions.”

“Hopefully not ones he believes.”

“The Lord of Light delivers messages in the way we’re ready to receive them,” she says, “For some, it’s through flames, but for you, Lord Tyrion, perhaps it’s drunken visions.”

“Then the Lord of Light has told me some strange shit over the last few years.”_ Drunken visions that have my lady mother that led me upstairs. _

Melisandre actually _ laughs_, which Tyrion thinks is the worst thing to ever leave her mouth. “There’s a botchling on your grounds, a creature born from a deceased infant, filled with malice from being abandoned. I know not _ why _ the creature exists, but I believe _ you _ hold the answers.”

“Do you, now?”

“Botchlings don’t go away, my lord,” Melisandre walks away, “They only grow angrier.”

* * *

“You came.”

Brienne scowls at Jaime where he’s leaning against a tree at the edge of the yard, arms crossed and sword fastened to his left hip. _ He’s beautiful_, Sansa’s voice in her mind repeats--in fact, most of Brienne's more fanciful thoughts sound like Sansa.

And Jaime _ is _ beautiful; she’d been immune to it until now because his personality was so insufferable. She looked at him, _ objectively_, and understood that women fawned over his golden curls, or his fine bone structure, or his eyes, but she’d never _ cared _ until yesterday.

Jaime had shown her something _ soft_, something vulnerable, and now she can see it, and she’s curious.

“You asked, ser, and I’m a guest in your house; it would be impolite of me not to answer your summons,” Brienne hides beyond her courtesies; it’s easier than admitting she’d laid awake after leaving Sansa thinking of their conversation, and Jaime’s broken expression. 

“_Oh_,” he answers, and Brienne swears she sees a flash of disappointment in his eyes before he recovers, “_Duty_, then; your constant companion.” Jaime’s smiling, now, the one she’s used to from King’s Landing, the one she _ knows_, now, is fake. 

“I...wanted to come,” she starts, unsure of how to comport herself, “It was...enjoyable. You took me seriously, and weren’t--didn’t ask to fight me just to put me in my place.”

The word _ enjoyable _ sounds odd coming from her. _ Because you’re allergic to fun_, Sansa would say. 

“Better, wench,” Jaime pushes himself off the tree, “_Honesty_. Part of our truce.”

“I’ll win today,” Brienne replies, making her challenge known, “and when I do, I’d ask that you answer my questions.”

“Your victory condition is a prize to help with your investigation?” He laughs, “How diligent of you.”

“I take my work seriously.”

“Mulishly so, apparently. Fine,” he agrees, “but if I win, I get to ask _ you _ questions.”

Brienne’s not sure she wants to subject herself to whatever questions Jaime will ask her, but fair is far, so she nods.

Jaime’s grinning, now, and he just looks entertained. _ What should I ask him? _Sansa would be clever, ask him questions to unravel the story of them and this house. She could ask him if he’s the father of Tommen and Myrcella, or who is their mother, or why he sees Casterly Rock as a prison.

He draws his sword, and Brienne does the same; they circle each other, as they had yesterday. Brienne’s tactic is always to wait until her opponent tires--she’d employed the same strategy when chasing a man on foot through Flea Bottom. Everyone tires faster than her, and they never expect what she can deliver. He’s watching her, and doesn’t underestimate her, so her usual strategy won’t behoove her this time.

She likes that, actually; it exercises her skills in a different way.

From his strikes, as yesterday, she knows he’s fighting her in earnest. He’s smiling, and he taunts her, but he’s not mocking her for weilding a sword. Brienne loses track of time, and all her constant questions fly out of her mind. _ Instinct_, she’d said yesterday, and that’s what it was. There was no need to think about the steps of this dance.

Jaime disarms her, though, sending her blade scattering across the cobblestones.

“Yield,” he demands, smirking.

Brienne nods, “I yield; you’re better than me.” Brienne only laments that she won’t get to ask her questions, not that she lost. It's fine to lose to someone better than she is.

“No,” Jaime answers, putting his sword back in its scabbard, “I’ve more years at it. A decade, at least. You’re--”

“Twenty,” Brienne replies as she picks up her sword, “I think I was...seven, when my father let me train.”

“That’s…” Jaime pauses, “I was five, when Father started the lessons. There was a gap, though, from nine to fourteen. Then there was Arthur Dayne, as you know.”

“A...gap? Were you ill?”

Oddly, Jaime looks upwards to the house looming behind them. “No, it was---_ wait_, I won, I ask the questions.”

Brienne hoped he would be loquacious and continue--that’s the end of her cleverness at prying for information. “Fine. Ask your damn questions.”

“I’ve made the lady cross.”

“_Now _ you have.”

Jaime returns to the tree he’d been leaning against before they’d begun and sits down at the base. Brienne follows him, feeling awkward as she rests her back against the trunk. 

“Why’d you join the City Watch?”

A simple question, one Brienne can answer, “I...wanted to be a knight, as a girl--like a hero from a story.”

“Knights aren’t like that any longer,” Jaime sounds wistful, “but I _ lived _ for those stories.”

“The City Watch help the smallfolk. Their concerns are paltry to the highborn, but no less significant.”

“How noble of you.”

“Why’d you join the Kingsgauard?”

“These are _ my _queries, wench,” Jaime huffs. “I joined to be closer to my sister.”

“Because she married King Robert?”

“Because Father _ forced _ her to.” There is an undercurrent of rage, there; Brienne can hear it simmering in the tone of Jaime’s voice. Then, it’s gone so quickly she wonders if she imagined it. “Tell me about you and Lady Sansa--even my sworn brothers talk about you sometimes, you spend so much time running around King’s Landing.”

“Do you really want to know?”

“I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.”

_ Why is he interested in me? _She’s poor conversation and homely besides; her instinct is to withhold information. The more Jaime knows, the more he can mock. She finds herself telling him, though, of meeting Sansa in the stairwell, and all the followed. Sansa had looked past her ungainly exterior to see her heart, had given her friendship.

“I was...so isolated, before,” she whispers, more to herself than to Jaime, “I didn’t know it until she invited me out to lunch.”

“Lady Sansa found her knight, after a fashion.”

Brienne flushes, and presses her forehead against her bent knees to hide it. “Sansa is more capable than me in every way, except a sword. Everyone needs someone, though.”

Jaime’s breath hitches; Brienne remembers the sound from yesterday, right before he’d started crying. She turns to look at him--his legs are stretched out on the ground, and he’s looking away, only golden waves visible to her. She moves closer, another instinct, until she could touch him if she wished, if she knew how, if he would welcome it. 

“I’ve no one,” he whispers, “In King’s Landing, I can work enough to forget it, or surround myself with sycophants to pass the time, but _ here _\--”

‘What about your siblings?”

“No, ”Jaime shakes his head, but not enough for her to see his expression. “_ This _ is too much togetherness. We...suffer from a shared circumstance. I _ want _ to be there for them, but I can’t. We pull from our strength from the same well, and there’s not enough to go around.”

‘Ser--”

“I was supposed to be asking _ you _ questions, you know.”

_He’s lonely_; Sansa had been right. Brienne _knows_ loneliness--the ache of it, the isolation, even in a crowd. “I grew up in a house like this.” It’s not a question Jaime asked, not verbally at least, but it’s one she will answer. “My sisters died in their cribs, then my mother, then my brother drowned. By the time I was ten, it was just the two of us. Father mourned them all, and never stopped.” 

Jaime looks at her, and there’s no tears today, but he looks exhausted to the bone, the hollows under his eyes pronounced. “But your father loves you?”

“He does, despite the fact that I’m not a son and am a _ terrible _daughter.”

Jaime is staring at her. _ What is going on here? _ She’s confused, and overwhelmed at how concerned she is for this irritating man who had shown her nothing but his scornful exterior until a day ago. Sansa knew less of her, though, when she extended her hand to Brienne in friendship.

Brienne touches his shoulder, even though her hand feels graceless against the fine fabric of his shirt; he’d discarded his jacket before they crossed swords. He’s warm, and the muscles under her palm shift when he turns to her. She knows the feeling in her chest--the traitorous beginnings of _ desire_, like when she used to imagine Renly Baratheon, only Jaime Lannister is tangible.

“Why are you touching me?” he looks at her hand, calloused from holding a sword, then up to meet her eyes.

“Why did you cry yesterday?”

Jaime takes her other hand, curls his fingers around hers, and takes a deep breath, “Because this house is too much to bear alone.”

“You’re not alone right now.”

He’s still watching her, and Brienne loses sight of her goal; she wanted to ask his secrets. Then, Jaime _ kisses her_, and she’s so shocked she freezes completely. The hand not holding hers cradles the back of her neck, tangled in her hair, and Jaime stills, too. Then, _ something _ in Brienne relents, and she yields to him, just a fraction, and it inspires him to move his lips against hers. She moves her hand up from his shoulder, over his neck and to land at his jaw. He feels too fine for her to touch, moreso here than her hand on his shoulder. Jaime leans into her, though, and they’re still holding hands, and he _ keeps _ kissing her until her mind blanks.

When he pulls away, their eyes meet, and his are wide, mouth slightly agape. Brienne feels as shocked as Jaime looks, but insecurity claws its way up her throat, and she twists his expression to regret in her mind. She tingles where they touched, and knows she’s flushed with desire and embarrassment.

“How many people have you kissed?”  
Another question; it doesn’t register for a moment, and she shakes her head to clear her mind. “O--one, before this,” she stumbles over her words.

“Tell me.”

“A--At the first City Watch district I was assigned to,” _ Why am I telling him this? _ “There was a bet, and the loser had to kiss--” she trails off and looks away. She should have _ known _ from the moment anyone was _ kind _ to her.

“_Oh_, Brienne.”

“I shoved him down the stairs,” she finishes, knowing how stubborn she sounds, “and he deserved it.”

Jaime laughs, and the sound _ isn’t _ the broken one from yesterday, “_Good_, wench,” he says, “Although, I now know the risk I took with my forwardness.”

“I--I don’t--” She’s confused, now, and it must show because Jaime’s expression softens. He touches her face, then, runs his thumb over her bottom lip; it certainly doesn’t clear anything up.

“You’re a _ lady _ who holds her own against me with a blade,” Jaime moves his thumb again, and Brienne’s heart beats its way out of her chest, “and _ then_, after a swordfight, I can kiss you. Who would put _ that _as the losing terms of a bet?”

“_Everyone_,” she gasps--all the failed suitors her father had found for her, her male colleagues, Renly Baratheon.

“You didn’t shove me away, even though I _ know _ you find me insufferable.”

“I like you more than when I arrived here,” Brienne blurts, “and you--you can confide in me. I know of old houses, and of grief.”

_ And kiss me again_. _ Even though I am ugly, and awkward, and surely don’t compare to the dozens of others you’ve touched. _

Jaime cuts her off thoughts by resting his forehead against hers, “You won’t believe me, but you’re only the second person I’ve kissed, too.”

He’s right--Brienne _ doesn’t _ believe the words when they reach her ears, and _ still _ doesn't believe them when Jaime brings their lips together once more.

* * *

The next day, Sansa goes exploring.

When she’s misbehaving, she hears Catelyn Stark’s voice in her head--her mother is _ usually _right, but Sansa doesn’t always listen. When she was a girl, she never understood Arya’s penchant for misbehaving or getting into scraps, but life in King’s Landing had granted her an appreciation for it. There’s something about being the master of her own time that makes her rankle against constraint. She wonders what her mother thinks of her now, peering around a corner to the stairway leading to the third floor of Casterly Rock. There’s centuries of bad blood between the Lannisters and the Starks; although, they haven’t been on the opposite side of a conflict since Robert’s Rebellion. 

Her father would say, “The North remembers,” and a younger Sansa would roll her eyes. 

They’ve probably received her letter by now--the reply she’d gotten after she’d started assisting Brienne was less-than-favorable. _ You’re the eldest daughter of the Warden of the North_, her mother had written, _ we sent you to King’s Landing on the condition you’d be safely in an office. _

_ Well, Mother, now I’m sneaking around an ancient manor hunting a ghost_.

Or hunting the past, or a secret. The fun is the chase, like when Brienne runs full tilt down an alley, and Sansa has to lift her dress to catch up. Talking with Tyrion is like that, too--he’s clever and two steps ahead of her as she tries to connect the dots.

The passage is empty--Jaime and Tyrion were downstairs, Cersei never leaves her room, and there’s barely any servants. Nevertheless, Sansa races up the stairs to the third floor, stopping at the top of the stairs. The entire house is hushed, but the silence is elevated here. Sansa feels like she’s opened a mausoleum, or a time capsule--this space, more than any of the others, feels frozen in memory.

Someone’s been here, though--there’s tracks in the dust on the stone floor. Brienne would look at the gait and the shoe size, and know _ something_. Sansa only knows to follow the tracks. She passed closed doors, wonders what’s behind them, but holds her course until she finds another stairway.

The footprints cease here.

_ Hmmm_.

“Pardon my intrusion,” Sansa whispers but the air is so still it sounds like she’s screaming.

She climbs, following the landing as the stairs curve around until she reaches the top. The landing here is small and bare, with dusty windows along one wall. Where was this, if she was standing on the grounds? The Westerlands stretch on outside the windows, and she can’t see the Sunset Sea from here--the back of the house, then.

“A bare wall?

Sansa runs her fingertips along the wall, thinking. _ This is the top floor of the house, so there’s something beyond this, but there’s no door. _ Her fingertips hit a bump in the plaster, and Sansa stops. An impulse strikes her, and she raps her knuckles against the wall. The sound is hollow the first few times, and then her last tap is a dull _ thunk_.

“There’s something solid behind this.” 

_ What the hell is going on here? _ She hits the spot again, just to make sure--there _ should _be an entire floor here. A noise startles her, someone clearing their throat extra loudly; Sansa turns to find Tyrion at the top of the stairs.

“Lord Tyrion, I--” 

He stares at the wall for a long moment before looking to her, “You’re nosy, Lady Sansa, but it was only a matter of time. I should thank you, I suppose, following you got me up the stairs.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry for the cliffhanger! I'd love to hear what everyone thought.


	9. a little vision of the start and the end

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Forgive me, my lord,” Sansa bows her head and looks at the worn planks of the wooden floor; she almost can’t believe such a spare space exists in a house this opulent. “It’s as you said--I let my curiosity get the better of me. I shouldn’t be up here. This house isn’t a ghost story from a book.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year!
> 
> I was travelling for the holidays, and while I got a lot of writing done (mostly on my phone ahaha), my free time to sit down and post was quite limited. Weekly-ish updates will resume from now on!
> 
> This week's chapter title comes from the Florence + the Machine song "Breath of Life." If this fic has a theme song, it's this.

It’s usually Arya who gets caught, red-handed, doing something she shouldn’t. It used to be archery, or holding a sword, until their father saw Arya for what she is and let her pursue her interests. Sansa was the _ good _ daughter--she liked sewing, and dancing, and never complained about being a lady.

So, when Tyrion speaks the truth and calls her nosy, shame rushes through her.

“Forgive me, my lord,” Sansa bows her head and looks at the worn planks of the wooden floor; she almost can’t believe such a spare space exists in a house this opulent. “It’s as you said--I let my curiosity get the better of me. I shouldn’t be up here. This house isn’t a ghost story from a book.”

Tyrion chuckles quietly, but it’s not enough to make Sansa look up, “It’s not, but it _ could _ be. The most melodramatic of bards couldn’t come up with a more ridiculous set of circumstances for a family. Tell me the most fanciful pulp you’ve read from a novel, and this will beat it.”

Sansa thinks of things she’s read--stories of murder, affairs, betrayals. _ What happened here? _

“I’ve read, and seen, some outlandish things, my lord.” She becomes less and less shocked each case she works with Brienne. For every ten mundane robberies or assaults, there’s a case where the facts keep her awake at night. 

“I don’t doubt that,” he answers, “but there’s an air of tragedy to Casterly Rock, and the three of us.”

“Especially Queen Cersei,” Sansa says, “We spoke yesterday; she accused me of wanting to marry Ser Jaime for his money.”

Tyrion laughs, “As though Sansa Stark needs to marry for money. Cersei isn’t well; you shouldn’t pay her any mind. I’m amazed she ventured out of her room.”

“I wanted to interview her.”

Tyrion’s grin is a wry one, “I assume you...didn’t.”

“No. I did learn she’s _ oddly _ possessive of Ser Jaime, though.” She’d thought about _ that _ for most of the day and considered telling Brienne about it when she visited her last night. Brienne seemed too preoccupied with her own thoughts of Jaime for Sansa to add to it, though.

“Since birth,” Tyrion answers. 

“I enjoy our conversations,” Sansa replies, finally looking Tyrion in the eye, “And you must think me somewhat clever, to drop so many hints for me to follow. I tire, though, of the word games.”

“You’re quite clever,” Tyrion smiles at her, “Was what we spoke of at breakfast the other morning what lead you to climb the stairs?”

“It was,” Sansa replies. “If you truly saw a ghost, why did she lead you here? Not a soul has gone higher than the second floor, until now.”

Tyrion looks at the plastered wall spanning the length of the landing, “Father’s letter said that Mother’s ghost was disappointed when she visited him. She seems mournful; to me, like she wanted better for the three of us, or wants us to improve, if such a feat can be done.”

“And...being here will help you improve?”

He touches the wall this time, knocking along as Sansa had before he arrived. Tyrion stops when the sound changes, “_Ah._”

They’re close, and Sansa kneels so they’re at eye-level. “Ah?” she repeats, confused, “The sound…”

“A door,” Tyrion answers, taking a deep breath, “Plastered over, although I don’t know when. Father must’ve had it done sometime after he sent Jaime away. I never came back up here to look.”

Sansa’s mind races--a plastered over wall? It _ is _ like a novel. Tyrion strikes her as someone who always has the upperhand in any given situation. _ He looks scared_, she thinks, _ and it’s a strange expression on his face_. 

“And...what lies behind it?”

“It’s not a story,” Tyrion repeats, “knowing the truth will make it your burden, too.”

“You don’t need to patronize me; I’m not a child”

Tyrion shakes his head, “I’m not patronizing you; I’m sparing you. Walk down the steps and forget this place. It’s what I’d do if I were able.”

_ He’s clever, but not clever enough to know that I won’t back down. _

"You don’t need to be a hero, or a martyr, and bear things alone. I told Brienne that, when we met, and I’ll repeat it to you.”

“You’d share it?” He sounds surprised, “The burden of the truth.”

Sansa nods, “I listen to people’s misfortunes all day, my lord. Hearing something from a friend is easier--I can help you.” There’s so, so much that Sansa can’t fix.

“I think you’d be the first, for any of us, Lady Sansa.”

“Someone has to be.”

“Our father kept us here,” Tyrion raps on the wall again, “Although he clearly wanted to bury it as we have tried to do. The door beyond this leads to a room. Blessedly, I was a babe for much of it and don’t remember, but Jaime and Cersei…”

“....Kept?”

“Prisoner. Well, father called it _ safe_, but he was lying to himself, I think. He didn’t want a chance at losing us, either, as he had her. He didn’t want to look at me because I killed our lady mother, and he didn’t want to look at Jaime or Cersei because they reminded him of her. So, he did what any good Lannister would do with something he didn’t want to see--he buried it.”

Sansa presses her hand to her mouth, knowing she must be gaping at Tyrion.

“The three of you--”

“Five years,” Tyrion answers, “It was all I knew, and I didn’t understand until the end. Father was worse to me, after, because then he _ had _ to reckon with my existence, with all three of us.”

“How did you--?”

“Oh, we were cared for--if all you think a child needs is food, water, and clothing. I tried to tell Father, once, if he understood what he had done to us, but we might as well be animals in a stockade. _ You were fed and clothed _ he told me, _ which is more than you deserve. _”

Tears run down Sansa’s cheeks, not that she has any right to them. She cries after cases, sometimes, either into her pillow, or next to Brienne’s comforting silence. “I’m sorry,” she says because it’s the only response she can think of. "Why did Lord Tywin...stop?"

"I shouldn’t be the one to tell something that isn’t my part."

"I understand.”

“It wasn’t bad for me, but for Jaime and Cersei, they were older, and it--there’s _ more_,” Tyrion lets out a heavy sigh. “Well, he’s fucking dead now, and there’s no sign of _ him _as a ghost, thank the gods.” 

Sansa nods.

“You’ll figure the rest out easily enough, regardless,” he finishes.

“Do you...want to knock down the wall?”

Tyrion stares at the space where the door is hidden, “I...do. I do. Not _ me_,” he gestures to himself, “but someone tall, and strong. Jaime or Clegane could make swift work of this.”

“Or Brienne,” Sansa adds.

“Nevermind the others, we’ll ask her.” 

“Two minutes with a mallet in her hands, and it will be rubble at our feet.”

“Thank you,” Tyrion says to her, softer, “You were right. The hiding is the problem. Father never learned that. All sorts of horrible things grow kept in darkness.”

* * *

_ “We can’t do this anymore.” _

_ Jaime rehearsed what he was going to say to Cersei for an entire day before going to her. He tried to imagine her objections, the logic she would use to lure him back in. The decision is _ right_, though--Jaime knows it is. _

_ “This?” she replies, rising and gliding across the floor to greet him. _

_ She’s a flame, and he’s a moth, drawn to her beauty, even as it brings destruction. Does Cersei feel this, too? Does she look at him and think that she doesn’t know how to stop doing what they’re doing? _

_ “We hurt each other,” Jaime continues, “and we deserve better.” _

_ That's a new thought for Jaime, thinking about what he deserves, or even wants, beyond what _ is. _ He’s given up trying to imagine the trajectory of their relationship if everything had been different--it _ wasn’t _ different, and the speculation served only to depress him. _

_ “We’re one,” Cersei answers, “and we can’t be separated.” _

_ She’d whispered the same words in his ear when he’d returned to Casterly Rock before she married King Robert. Tywin, who’d never paid enough attention to know his children, assumed the years apart would break their bond. _

_ It hadn’t---but it _ did _ make it more disastrous. _

_ “It was never meant to be like this,” Jaime isn’t sure that’s true. Maybe, in all the permutations, he still fucks her, but he says it regardless. “We’re not happy.” _

_ “And we never will be. Father took that from us. We only have one another, and our pride kept through secrets.” Cersei looks up at him with her eyes that mirror his own, “We’re whole, together. I only feel complete with you, brother.” _

_ That seemed romantic, once, and now it doesn’t; they’re clawing at one another and burying themselves deeper. Jaime has never been alone, but he will try. _

_ “I’m done,” Jaime says, just like he’d practiced, “and I’m sorry you don’t agree.” _

_ Rage fills Cersei like high tide rushing in; it will drag Jaime out if he doesn’t plant his feet. She turns from him, a jerking motion, and goes to her dressing table to pick up a handheld mirror. She smacks it against the corner of the marble table, and Jaime hears it crack. _

_ “This is us,” Cersei’s voice is deadly quiet as she holds up the hand mirror, now cracked down the middle. “We only fit with each other; we’re the only ones who know, who can understand what happened.” _

_ “Cersei--” _

_ “Everyone you tell, or want, or love, will turn from you,” Cersei says the words like a prophecy and drops the mirror onto the rug. “We’re broken, brother, and no one will want you when the truth comes out. No one will want a man who fucked his twin. That’s the irony Father never saw--he ensured we could never be parted.” _

He shouldn’t have kissed Brienne.

The thought repeats, in a loop with Cersei’s words, _ no one will want you _; Jaime flops dramatically onto the bed he sleeps in, legs dangling over the side. The ceiling holds no answers, so he flings his arm over his face.

He _ definitely _shouldn’t have kissed Brienne of Tarth.

And to make matters worse, Jaime didn’t just kiss her once--no, he kissed Brienne again, and _ again, _ until the usually stubborn wench became pliant in his arms, until her breathing hitched when he pressed his lips to a hidden, soft patch of skin behind her ear. Brienne gripped his hand until it _ hurt_, but Jaime felt it, and that was _ good_. He kissed her until enough time had passed that reality crashed back in between them.

She looked at him with the wide eyes of a girl, a _ maid_, dazed from kissing for much, much longer than they’d crossed swords. Jaime didn’t know what to say to her.

Brienne isn’t beautiful, but he could wax poetic about the sea-blue of her eyes, or the look in them when she points a sword at him. He had also thought, at length, in the last twenty-four hours about the handkerchief she’d handed him, and the comfort of her silent presence. 

He could have told her that he’s never felt so alone, so isolated, not since the first time Cersei had crawled into his bed with tears in her eyes and _ touched _ him and they’d initiated this decades-long nightmare.

_ “You’re not alone right now.” _

Maybe _ this _ is just what Jaime Lannister _ does _ at the lowest moment. Maybe Cersei is waiting for this moment and has been for years, the moment when he breaks and returns to her. 

Instead, though, he’d kissed the Maid of Tarth.

“C-come tomorrow, please.” he’d stumbled to her when she stood up and nearly ran away.

“I will,” she responded--the wench’s words were her vows. Jaime had no doubt Brienne would be there tomorrow afternoon, for him to kiss, or to let her best him in the hopes that she might indulge him by pushing him down, or for him to weep into her shoulder like a child.

_ No one will want you_. 

It’s not the first time he’s imagined telling someone--a pretty noble at a party, drinking with Addam Marbrand, chatting with his sworn brothers; Jaime has imagined saying the truth dozens of times. 

“You don’t have to tell a woman your life story for a warm place to stick your cock,” Tyrion told him once. His brother didn’t understand, though--each time Cersei took him to her bed, Jaime gave a piece of himself to her, and it took him much too long to notice he was empty, and she was giving nothing back. He’s not Tyrion; he wants more than a nameless cunt.

He _ can’t _ kiss Brienne again, not until he _ tells _ her. Jaime realized, when Brienne touched him, how wretched he’d been fairing at being alone. And Cersei was probably right--Brienne would recoil from the truth, look at him with disgust and judgment in her eyes. It would be like the looks he _ deserved _from her for taunting her in King’s Landing, only evermore damaging because he’ll have bared the worst of all his truths to her.

* * *

“I kissed Brienne of Tarth today,” Jaime says when he flops into the armchair next to Tyrion, who starts pouring the nightcap before his brother even sits down.

“Lady Sansa snuck up to the top floor of the house, so I told her the truth.”

Jaime stares at him, slack-jawed, and Tyrion’s face must be graced with a similar expression. 

_ Ah, we really are brothers_.

“You fucking did _ what_?” They _ both _ say it, in near perfect unison.

“Go first, please,” Jaime says, taking a sip of the brandy and gesturing to Tyrion with his snifter.

Tyrion would rather talk about the _ how _ and _ why _ of his brother, with his septon-like chastity for Cersei, fucking _ kissed _ Brienne of Tarth, of all people. The woman was three-times Tyrion’s height and seemed unable to hold a conversation with anyone except Sansa.

“There’s nothing to say. I followed her upstairs, a boon in a way because I wasn’t getting up those stairs on my own, no matter how many ghostly visions of Mother visit me when I’m too deep in my cups.” He takes a more robust drink than he probably ought, “Father plastered over the door, by the way.”

Jaime gives him a humorless smirk, “He fucking _ would_. I’m surprised he didn’t do it with us _ inside_.”

“That’s what I thought. And then I just...told her.”

“And?” Jaime leans forward and rests his knees on his elbows.

“Relief,” he answers, “I feel...lighter, truly.”

“And it’s _ not _ because she’s a pretty maid?”

“And what do _ you _ know of pretty maids, brother?”

“Nothing,” Jaime answers honestly, “What...how did Lady Sansa react?”

“Horrified, naturally.” _ Who wouldn’t be? It horrifies me if I think on it too long_. “But she told me I didn’t have to shoulder it alone. Then she said she was sorry.”

_ “You’re not alone right now_,” Jaime mumbles, and Tyrion raises an eyebrow, “Brienne told me that.”

“Before, or after, you kissed her?”

It might be the lamplight, or the brandy, but Jaime is _ fucking blushing,_ and Tyrion thinks it has little to do with the two aforementioned things, and everything to do with Brienne and kissing.

“Before,” he says, stubbornly looking away. “We were sparring--she uses a sword.”

_ Oh, gods, a _ sword _ ; my idiot brother will charter the next carriage to Lannisport and wed her. _

“Is she a knight, too?” Jaime is too easy to tease.

“No, but she _ could _ be,” Jaime answers, “And she _ does _ things, helps people.”

Jaime and women are the _ strangest _ thing--ladies in King’s Landing trip over themselves to get to him--to impress, or wed him, or at least fuck him _ once _ to say they had. Jaime staunchly refuses them _ all _ : Tyrion has seen Jaime turn down women so outstanding that it made Tyrion weep with grief for the lost opportunity. _ Damn you, you handsome fool_. 

There’s only Cersei, nothing before, obviously, and now, nothing after.

Not that Tyrion would _ ever _ utter this aloud 

“Jaime,” Tyrion is regretting what he’s about to say before he even says it, “What do you like in a woman? I can tell you what I _ like _\--dark hair and dark eyes, or--” He’d been thinking of Shae, but Sansa’s light blue eyes come to mind, too. “And don’t say Cersei, for fuck’s sake.”

Jaime drinks in silence and Tyrion waits. 

“Innocence.”

Tyrion laughs and slaps his hand against his leg, “Jaime, that quality only works once. So unless you plan to bed virgins--”

“Not like that,” Jaime snaps, “_ Kindness_, someone who’s--who’s free of malice, or duplicity. Someone who can _ know_, and won’t run, or judge.”

“You definitely _ aren’t _ describing our sweet sister.”

“I know,” Jaime pours more brandy.

“You’re such a maiden, looking for romance,” Tyrion teases, “Tell me, did you swoon when you kissed her?”

“Fuck you,” Jaime’s tone doesn’t match the words. “Everything with Cersei was _ terrible_, and I finally saw it, but today was _ just_\--” 

_ He definitely swooned_.

“You take fucking _ very _seriously.”

“I didn’t ask for your input on _ that._”

“You should tell her,” Tyrion says, confident in his advice. “I only told Lady Sansa what was my secret to give, but you could tell Lady Brienne everything, if you wanted to.”

“Cersei...won’t be happy with _ any _of this.”

Tyrion shrugs, “She’s happy with nothing, and the gods know you’ve tried more than she deserves. She doesn’t help herself at all, so you should do what helps you, for once.”

“What would help you, Tyrion?”

He wouldn’t have known the answer to that question, not until today. “Knocking the fucking wall down and airing the ghosts out.”

* * *

Brienne walks, aimlessly, thinking about too many things to keep straight. She prides herself on being level-headed--she rarely panics, even in less-than-ideal circumstances she typically remains calm. It makes her good at her job, and that makes her happy.

Today, though, her mind races; she’s thinking of ghosts, and Jaime Lannister’s tears _ and _ his kisses, and how many mysteries need unraveled in this damn house. Understanding Jaime wasn’t part of her assignment, but somehow he’d become the biggest mystery of all. Someone such as him _ shouldn’t_, couldn’t want to kiss someone such as her.

And yet, the memory _ burns._ Kissing Jaime Lannister was _ nothing _ like when Owen Inchfield kissed her in the stairwell--he’d smelled like stale tobacco and had forced her into a corner. Even if the kiss was the end of a lost bet, he’d sought to take from her what pleasure he could. _ Your cunt will be fine enough, as long as I don’t have to look at you_. A fine enough boon, to use her, despite being at the losing end of a wager.

She’d saved Sansa from a similar unwanted advance, which gave Brienne a strong sense of vindication.

Jaime hadn’t kissed her like that, though; he was tentative, and _ gentle_, and his hand that held hers was shaking. After the first, Brienne was ready to dismiss it as a fluke, but Jaime pulled her closer and kissed her again, kissed her like someone _ wanted_, someone worthy of being kissed.

She still can’t believe that he’d only kissed one another person; although, she keeps trying to imagine who that person might be. And he’d asked her to come back today. Would he kiss her again? Or would he regret it, and only want to cross blades? Brienne would mourn if it was only the latter, even though sparring with him was very engaging.

A laugh from a nearby room breaks her thoughts--Tommen and Myrcella are giggling, so Brienne follows the sound, peering around the doorframe. The twins are playing, sitting on the large rug covering the floor. Myrcella is holding a small pamphlet, and is reading instructions to Tommen.

“That piece goes there,” she points to a spot on the model they’re building. Brienne can’t quite make out what the figure is--a boat, maybe?

Tommen follows her direction, attempting to attach the piece to what Brienne assumes is the spot his sister pointed to, “It doesn’t fit, Myrcella. Give me the book.”

“No,” she answers, holding the instructions above her head, “_I’m _ reading, you’re assembling. That’s what we decided!”

“You’re reading it wrong, though!” Tommen shouts, going up on his knees to attempt to pluck the instructions out of her hand.

“I’m _ not_; it’s you that’s wrong,” Myrcella stands and backs away from Tommen, who follows her in a chase around the room.

_ I used to chase Galladon around like this_. Brienne remembers stealing his toy knights and horses and him getting angry as she tried to run away. _ Even then, I liked those toys more than my dolls. _Galladon always caught her, being four years older. Myrcella is giving Tommen a much better chase.

Tommen catches her, and Myrcella yelps when he grasps the booklet and knocks her down. Then, they’re tumbling on the floor, and Brienne is about to step in to part them before someone gets hurt, when both children stop moving like they’ve been interrupted, looking at a far spot in the room.

Brienne looks where they’re looking, and sees...well, nothing. A wardrobe in the corner and a window. All three of them stare at the seemingly random point in silence.

Then, Myrcella releases Tommen from the chokehold she had him in and says, “We’re sorry, Grandmother.”

Tommen nods, reaching up to straighten the bow holding his sister’s curls into a ponytail; it might look worse for his help. 

“We know we shouldn’t fight,” they say in unison.

_ Grandmother. Joanna. The ghost? _

Brienne looks at the corner of the room again, willing her mind to see _ something_. Would Sansa be able to see it? Is Brienne of Tarth to _ too _ logical to be influenced by the supernatural? If Tommen and Myrcella are playing make believe, it's a strange game indeed.

“Lady Brienne.”

Startled, Brienne turns to find Shae beside her at the door. “Good morning,” she answers.

“Is Lady Joanna talking to them again?” Shae peers in the room--the twins have gone back to building the model, but Tommen is reading the instructions now.

“Does she--do they--does this happen frequently?”

“A few times a week for the last few months. Lord Tywin saw her, too.”

“Do...you?”

Shae shakes her head minutely, “No."

“But you believe them?”

“They know things, sometimes, that they shouldn’t know,” Shae peers through the door again, but Tommen and Myrcella pay them no mind. When she speaks again, her voice is lower, “They knew Lady Joanna was their grandmother, and Lord Tywin never told them _ anything_. If they’re playing make believe when she speaks to them, they’re _ very _coordinated.”

“Do they know their parentage?” _ That _ was the question to ask.

“Half,” Shae answers, “Queen Cersei is their mother.”

Brienne tries to keep her face a placid mask, to not react to the piece of new information Shae just bestowed upon her. Does she dare to ask the rest? She thinks she does.

“...And their father?”

Shae smiles, “My apologies, Lady Brienne, I can’t give you the answers that you seek.”

Brienne’s a little _ less _skilled at hiding her frustration.

* * *

“Jaime, you need to tell these people to get the hell out of our house.”

Cersei is pacing when Jaime enters her room, a manic quality to her steps and her tone that he recognizes. This isn’t going to be a good conversation, but it’s too late to back out now. _ When was the last time we had a good conversation, though? Even when I was happy to see her, that doesn’t mean it was good. _

“Why? We don’t want for the space,” Jaime answers. There’s enough people at the dinner table to distract him from his thoughts, and their father is surely turning over in his grave.

“Because they’re prying into our secrets.”

He decides to be candid with her because it really can’t get worse, “Is that such a bad thing? Are you happy living like Father forced us to, locked up together? We’re out of that room, but we’re _ not_, not really.”

The weight of it is still there, trapping the three of them beneath it.

“We _ can’t _ be happy,” she stops her pacing and turns to him, “We can only be together, despite your denial of it. Why would we reveal something that would _ ruin _ us?”

“I don’t want to think that’s the case.” Jaime wants to imagine something for himself that isn’t _ this _ \--if the feeling in him when he sparred with Brienne could exist _ more_, he wants to chase it. If he could wake up in the morning and have something other than what was done to them be his first thought. “I want to be more than grief and hatred for our father.”

“And what is that _ more_, brother?”

“I don’t know, but don’t you want to find out? To get out of the shade of Tywin Lannister?”

Cersei stops and looks out the window, “_ Impossible_. All you’ve done is open our doors to people who want to separate us.”

_ There’s no us_, Jaime wants to say, but he doesn’t want to open up that conversation. _ I’ll take care of you_. Jaime said that to her so many times over the years, drained himself dry in a bid to keep her happy. 

“The truth, and people knowing isn’t what separates us. _ You _did that.”

She flies at him, then, livid, and Jaime catches her, hands on her upper arms to keep her at a distance, “I’m not the one who ended things!”

_ No, but you’re why _ I _ did. _

“I want to tell someone.” 

_ Like Tyrion trusted Lady Sansa, as strange a combination as that seems. _

“And who would you trust, brother? Who would you ruin us for? I’m the _ queen _\--if Robert finds out, what will become of me?”

“I don’t know,” he lies, not wanting to turn Cersei’s gaze onto Brienne, “Tyrion told Lady Sansa--she went upstairs.”

_ “What_?! He kills our mother, gets us locked away, and then reveals our secret? Father should have killed _ him_, not--”

“Stop!” Jaime nearly yells, and Cersei’s glare could disembowel him, but she quiets. “He has as much right to share it as any of us do.”

“I’d _ never _ betray us for comfort in the arms of some upstart tramp from the North.”

The Starks are an old family, as old as the Lannisters, but Jaime doesn’t think the time to correct his sister is now. “He says Mother has visited him, too--that she led him upstairs.”

“Was he fucking drinking?”

“Probably, honestly_. _ That’s rich, coming from you, though.”

“Don’t fucking compare me to _ him_. Have _ you _ seen her?”

“I haven’t.” If the ghost _ is _ real, some strange envy is forming in Jaime. Why does Tyrion get to see their mother? Is it because he never knew her in life?

Cersei crosses her arms and scowls, “How--how _ was _she to Tyrion?” Angry that he fucking killed her to come into the world, I hope?”

“Sad,” Jaime answers, even though it’s not what Cersei wants to hear, “For all three of us.”

“It’s _ his _fault we’re sad. Everything would have been different--”

“Tommen and Myrcella wouldn’t have existed, then.”

The thought halts Cersei’s rampage--Jaime thought it might. She looks at them with the same sadness that always overcomes her when they’re mentioned. “I don’t know them, so that might be better.”

She might was well have slapped him, for the way her words stagger him. Jaime regretted the circumstances of their birth, but not _ them_. He couldn’t regret them, even when he’d never known them.

“You don’t mean that.”

“Don’t I?’

“I’m going to take them to King’s Landing.”

Her answer is a scoff and a look that reads _ you’re a fool_. “And do what, play at being their father?”

“Father or not, I’m responsible for them. I won’t leave them here to rot, cloistered off from the world. Would you wish for them what was done to us?”

“Nothing I wish for them matters,” Cersei says, “That chance was taken from me when I was sold off to Robert.”

“I won’t keep them from you. No one will think it odd for two children to spend time with their aunt.”

She slaps him, then, not hard enough to stagger him, but the pain isn’t what’s important. “So _ you _ get them, then? And I, who carried them, birthed them, get to _ visit_? Who will you say they belong to?”

“M-me,” Jaime stumbles. “Does it matter? I can marry, if it would help.”

“_It won’t_, and of course it fucking matters. Father called you stupid, and he was right.”

* * *

_ “Run away and marry me,” Jaime took her hands, pulled Cersei to him. _

_ She pulls her hands out of his grasp, “Father will find us, and how would we live?” _

_ “It doesn’t matter, if I’m with you.” _

_ “And who would wed us?” _

_ “Someone far away,” Jaime answers, “The Targaryens married brother to sister. Are we not above the laws of men? _

_ “...You sound like Father.” _

_ “Fuck Father, we’ll go where no one can find us.” _

_ She strokes his hair, then, like he’s a child who made a foolish choice, “No. I’ll marry Robert and you can join the Kingsgaurd, and then we’ll be together.” _

_ “You’d wed another?” Outrage fills him. _

_ “Not for love, but to keep us safe. In the capital, no one can separate us.” _

_ “We’ll be a secret--” _

_ “As we’ve always been, brother, with nothing between us.” _

_ Then, she’d kissed him, and took him to her bed, again and again until Jaime knew he was a fool and could think of no better idea than hers, and nothing he wouldn’t give her to see it come to fruition. _


	10. and the words are all escaping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Lady Brienne,” he sounds surprised to find her there.
> 
> She clutches her robe, too under-dressed to be standing with a man at her chamber door. “Ser Jaime. It’s...quite late.”
> 
> “Nearly midnight,” he agrees as he produces a bottle of wine from behind his back. “Have a drink with me? I want to talk...and this is what my brother does when he wants to talk, so I--”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I updated the chapter count to 19, which I THINK will be accurate. The next couple chapters mark an uplifting point in the narrative, but a bucket more angst is coming!
> 
> Also, Brienne borrows a romance novel from Sansa in this chapter. I started writing _One Good, Honest Kiss_ soon after this ahahaha.
> 
> The chapter's title is from the Florence + the Machine song "All This and Heaven Too."

Jaime acted like nothing happened that afternoon; their only contact was the accidental brushes during a sword fight.

Brienne beat him, finally. and looked at him skeptically, “Did you allow me to win, ser?”

“Why would I _ give _ you a victory? Where’s the honor in that?”

Jaime looked offended by the insinuation, honorable in ways she had not yet considered. He was also a complete and total mystery to her. He might as well be an ancient text written in High Valyrian--she can no better read his intentions. 

He’d met her eyes and asked, “Tomorrow?”

Brienne could only nod in response before retreating.

That night, she’s reading one of Sansa’s mystery romance novels in the chair before the fire in her room--she should have picked something drier; the swooning and declarations of love between the main characters aren’t helping her mood. Jaime Lannister might be the most irritating man alive, and Brienne didn’t exactly know how a _ good _ kiss should be, but the memory makes her feel very maidenly indeed. 

A knock on her door rips Brienne out of the scene she’s reading. _ Sansa again_. No one else would visit her room this near to midnight. It would be both improper _ and _ unlikely. She’s unconcerned about her state of dress; Sansa has seen her blue robe that’s two inches too short a dozen times.

When Brienne opens the door, though, she’s met with Jaime Lannister, shuffling from one foot to the other, eyes on the floor.

“Lady Brienne,” he sounds surprised to find her there.

She clutches her robe, too under-dressed to be standing with a man at her chamber door. “Ser Jaime. It’s...quite late.”

“Nearly midnight,” he agrees as he produces a bottle of wine from behind his back. “Have a drink with me? I want to talk...and this is what my brother does when he wants to talk, so I--”

“Lord Tyrion drinks on all occasions.” He imbibes cup after cup of wine at dinner, and Brienne has spied him sipping on _ something _ at random points throughout the day.

“_Especially _ if the conversation is unpleasant.”

_ Is he nervous? _It’s another expression that doesn’t fit--like his tears, and the tiny hopeful smile he graced her with in between kisses.

“Come in, before we incite some strange rumors.” She steps aside, and Jaime takes her invitation.

_ Rumors with who? _There's no one here.

“You were reading?” He picks up the book where she’d left it in her chair. “A _ romance _novel, Lady Brienne? I’m surprised at you, reading something risque.”

“It’s Sansa’s--” she starts. _ Damn me for not hiding the book under my pillow_.

“I’m sure it is.” Now _ that _ grin is meant to rile her--like _ wench_. “Your maidenly heart must enjoy reading about kissing and declarations of love.”

“Ser, if you mean to mock me for something that’s none of your business, you can leave.” Brienne points to the door; she’d forgotten, for a day, who he _ could _be. “If anyone’s being improper, it’s you for coming here so late.”

Jaime looks crestfallen, eyes focused on the ground. “I’m sorry; that was unworthy of me.”

Brienne’s surprised with herself when she says, “Apology accepted.”

He places the wine on the mantle and stares into the fire, “An unfunny jest. I haven’t any clue what I’m doing right now. I’m wretched at serious conversations.”

"I've been told I can't string a sentence together." One of the suitors her father found for her said as much, although it was far from the top of the list as to why the arrangement fell through.

"You've called me all sorts of names in full-sentences. Vainglorious, arrogant, flippant."

"_After _ you called me a judgmental bore."

"That was a full sentence, too!" He's chuckling. "And I know you _ can _laugh, you do so with Lady Sansa."

"Ser, why are you here?" 

Jaime takes a deep breath, like what's about to say is a struggle, "I kissed you."

_ Enough times that I lost count. _ Jaime's going to tell her it was just the _ moment_.

"I was there," she answers dryly, steeling herself.

“I shouldn’t have done--”

Brienne interrupts him, “Ser, you don’t have explain--” 

“Wench, _ shut up_. This is hard enough,” Jaime snaps, “I need to tell you something before we go any further. You’ll probably want nothing to do with me after.”

“Go...any further?”

Jaime paces the length of the fireplace and stalks around the back of the two armchairs facing it. “_ Yes. _ Am I alone in my _ extremely _ high opinion of our encounter?”

“Y--you want--” _ More? Me? _No end to than to that sentence makes any sense.

“Is there a wine opener in this damn room?”

The room _ does _ have one--because Lannister hospitality--Brienne retrieves it, and hands Jaime a glass for good measure; she doesn’t procure one for herself. Jaime undoes the cork, pours a generous portion. After the first sip, he scrunches his face in a way that Brienne desperately wishes wasn’t engendering a sentimental feeling in her chest.

“Ugh, I’ve always been _ shit _ at picking wine. Why did Father even _ keep _ this?”

Brienne awkwardly shoves her hands in her pockets. Despite what he said, Jaime empties the glass before pouring another. Then, he crosses the room to where Brienne retrieved the glass and pours one for her, too.

“You’ll want it, for this,” Jaime holds it out, and Brienne dumbly takes the glass.

Confusion makes her cross, “If you want to tell me something, I’m listening.”

“If you want me to leave, after, tell me, and I’ll go.”

“I won’t.”

Jaime answers her with a wry grin, “A brave wench, as usual.”

A heavy feeling settles in the pit of Brienne’s stomach, like when she’s on the cusp of making a connection between two pieces of evidence that she wishes were unrelated. “You _ can _ tell me.” Maybe it’s a declaration that Jaime can trust her to keep his counsel, or maybe it’s a declaration of her fortitude. “But you don’t _ need _ to; I didn’t come here to pry.”

“If I don’t confide in someone, I’m going to go mad.” Jaime sits in the armchair closest to him and drinks. “Tommen and Myrcella. Have you and Lady Sansa discerned…?”

“Shae told me Queen Cersei is their mother, but we can’t figure out who the father is. Before, we wondered if they were Lord Tywin’s. Hiding them didn’t make sense, though.”

“You won’t stumble upon the truth of it,” Jaime chuckles into his wine glass, “Father would _ never _ have an indiscretion such as that; he was much more disciplined than us, and _ very _ fond of telling us so.”

“It’s…”

“...Me.”

Brienne credits herself--she _ doesn’t _ drop her wine glass, and she wasn’t drinking, so she doesn’t spit wine onto the rug in her shock. Metaphorically, though, her brain does _ both _ of those actions.

“_Yours_,” she repeats, like she doesn’t understand the word, “And you wanted to tell me because--because you _ still_\--”

“No!” Jaime half stands from his chair before collapsing back into it. “We’re not--it’s over between us...like that. It’s been _ years_; Cersei keeps trying to drag me back, but I won’t.”

“Why?” Brienne hears herself ask; a macabre fascination in Jaime’s words bubbling up within her. She doesn’t want to know, but she can’t tear her eyes away from him. _ A man kissed me, really, actually kissed me, and then tells me his sister is his former lover_. The gods are laughing at her. This might be crueler than being homely and awkward.

“Why did we do it, or why did we cease?”

“...Yes.”

Jaime isn’t looking at her, and it’s just like in the garden under the tree--he’s obscured by the waves of his hair. She and Sansa spent so long pondering _ how _ Tommen and Myrcella ended up with golden hair and green eyes, and the answer was under their noses: the twins were _ all _Lannister, truly.

“It was borne of circumstance,” Jaime whispers, “and then I loved her, but it was a desperate, unhealthy love. Nothing I’ve ever done for her has made her happy. I thought Tommen and Myrcella would, but Father kept them from us and married her off to Robert. I asked her to marry me, like we were fucking Targaryens, and she refused, called me a fool. So, I followed her to King’s Landing and joined the Kingsguard.”

Brienne’s fascination grows, “So you...ended things?”

“Yes,” Jaime still isn’t looking at her, “We’re _ terrible _for one another; she makes me a lesser person. I’ll be alone until I draw my last breath before I go back to her.”

“But you...love her?”

“As a sister. I wish we’d been allowed to be _ normal_. I pity her, more than anything. Have you ever tried fucking someone you pity?”

“N-no, I’ve never--” Brienne blushes at the vulgarity, and shakes her head, “You--you said _ circumstances._”

Jaime places his wine glass on the small table between them and tucks his knees against his body, resting his chin on them; the position makes him look like a tall child. 

“Father...confined us to the top floor of the house after Mother died. He justified that he was keeping us _ safe_, but he didn’t know what to do with us. Mother was the caring one, and we reminded him of her.”

“You told me that the house was a prison.”

“I wasn’t _ just _ being figurative.”

Puzzle pieces from their conversations fit together. “The gap in your sword instruction.”

Jaime nods, “Five years.”

“And...no one goes upstairs.”

“The confinement was one thing, but the _ neglect_. We had no idea what we were doing, and Tyrion didn’t understand,” Jaime pauses and takes a breath. “We were lonely, and Cersei always said we were _ one person_, and that no one could understand us. And there, it was _ true_, and it just... _ happened_, and kept happening. It wasn’t a good thing, ever, but it kept us sane.”

“Oh, _ Jaime_.” Brienne tries to halt the burning behind her eyes.

“It’s a fucking mess, and I know how unfathomable it must seem from the outside,” he says, “And...you’ve never said my name before.”

He’s always _ ser _ or _ lord_. Brienne wants to go to him, but she’s rarely comforted or been comforted. She’s not Sansa, who has the right words and knows when to squeeze her hand or wrap an arm around her. So, Brienne stands before him, and Jaime looks up; she doesn’t think he’s going to cry, but he looks hollowed out, and that is worse. Tears are a _ feeling_; the other day, he’d seemed _ better _ after.

“I’m glad you told me.” The knowledge might be a burden, but Brienne has carried a heavy load before.

“So you can avoid me?”

Casting Jaime out, or avoiding him, hadn’t even occurred to her.

“Something _ horrible _ was done to you,” she answers, “why would that make me avoid you when your truly _ insufferable _personality hasn’t yet managed?”

“I spent half my life fucking my sister and making the bad choices she asked of me trying to make her happy.” Jaime presses his forehead into his knees. “When I ended things. Cersei told me anyone I told would turn from me, and that only she would want me.”

That Jaime could feel unwanted strikes her like a blow. “I’m sorry I never noticed,” Brienne reaches out a hand, tentatively, to touch Jaime’s hair. “We’ve spent so long bickering, and I never considered.”

“How could you? I made certain no one noticed.”

“I thought you just liked nettling me.”

“I _ do_; it’s the most fun,” Jaime looks up at her and presses his head into her hand. “You’re so straightlaced, and you blush dramatically, like right now.”

The warmth in her cheeks worsens, and she shuts her eyes.

“I’m only ugly,” Brienne says, “but I know what it is to be told you’ve unworthy of love over something you have no control over. ”

“You’re not unworthy.”

“And neither are you.”

Then, Jaime covers her hand with his own, and Brienne opens her eyes to find him looking up at her. “This may sound trite, from me, but beauty isn’t everything.”

Brienne scoffs, “Spoken like a true beautiful person.

“Ah, Lady Brienne thinks I’m beautiful,” Jaime’s teasing, but there’s a hint of breathlessness to it.

“_Everyone _ thinks that, ser,” she deflects, “ _ Sansa _ thinks you’re beautiful. Why should my opinion weigh higher?”

Jaime takes her hand from his hair and kisses the back of it, like it’s the dainty hand of a lady and not everything that _ isn’t _ that.

“Because I told you my deepest, ugliest secret, and you’re still here,” he stands but doesn’t let go of her hand, “And, in contrast to your usual bumbling self, put a sword in your hand, and you’re a different being entirely.” 

“N-no one wants _ that _ from a lady.”

“I confess that I didn’t know I wanted it until I saw it, but you’re strong, and determined, and _ confident_. You know what it means to protect people.”

“Y-you sound like you’re describing the knight from Sansa’s book,” Brienne glances to it, still on the arm of her chair.

“That’s fine; a knight rescues people, and I _ desperately _ need rescuing.”

“_You’re _a knight,” Brienne protests.

Jaime is close, and Brienne’s never stared openly at him for this long. He looks how she _ feels_, skittish and approaching giddy. His eyes don’t leave her, though. The vulnerability in his expression makes him more beautiful, somehow, like she wants to hold him and keep him.

“I’m an ornament,’ he answers, “The skill I have goes unused for any noble purpose. How is the lady described in your book?”

“Pretty eyes and long hair,” Brienne doesn’t even know what she’s saying, “A tragic backstory.”

“That’s _ perfect_,” he releases her hand, puts his arms around her instead, “Would you mind if I kissed you once more, Lady Brienne?”

He asks like he’s courting the high-born lady she _ rarely _ feels like.

“I-If you’d like.”

“So _ tepid_. After yesterday, I think you liked it more than you’d like to admit.”

If he minds being likened to the maiden in Sansa’s book, it’s not revealed in his expression. Jaime’s bravado is his way of forcing through his uncertainty. If only Brienne were bolder, she could find some way to quell it. Yesterday, Jaime was tentative, restraint borne of the weight of his secret. Today, he doesn’t seem to mind that he has to go up on his toes to kiss her; he uses his arms around to hold himself there. He presses as close to Brienne as possible, and she has _ no idea _ what to do with her hands. She only knows that, like yesterday, Jaime kisses her to distraction.

“_Hmm_, I’ve never kissed anyone taller than me,” Jaime rests his cheek against hers, so he’s whispering into her ear.

“I haven’t either.”

“_Witty_,” Jaime chuckles, “and you can touch me, wench, unless--”

_ “Oh_.” 

She hadn’t meant to _ not_, so Brienne unclutches her robe and embraces him. Jaime sighs, a puff of air that tickles her skin and makes her shiver. Then, he moves to kiss her again, and their noses bump in his haste. She can’t bring herself to care, not when his second attempt lands, and he’s grasping at the fabric at her neck.

In her girlhood romantic daydreams, Brienne imagined she was someone else--daintier, prettier, softer. To imagine herself as she is would ruin the fantasy. Jaime is kissing _ her_, though, lips brushing over her broad, freckled cheeks, hands in her hair that her septa gave up on coiffing in something presentable. Jaime feels _ right_, and neither of them are pretending she’s someone else.

Jaime looks up at her, after, wide-eyed--an expression she’s wearing; although her blush is _ surely _ worse. 

“Your sister is wrong; I’ve..._ more _ affection for you now, I think.”

* * *

Jaime wakes up, closer to midday than to dawn, sideways on Brienne’s bed with a scratchy decorative pillow under his cheek.

And yet, _ somehow_, he felt better rested than any night since arriving in Casterly Rock, possibly better than any night in recent memory. Reality floods back in as soon as he rights himself, planting his feet on the floor, but Jaime thinks he can face it, now. It’s chasing him, certainly, and he will turn and meet it, sword in hand.

Tyrion had the right of it--that wall is coming down today. It will be _ horrible _ as it does, but the secrets are an infection, and the longer they wait to excise them, the more they will lose. Jaime tries not to contemplate Cersei’s reaction--she’s in no place to know what’s best for herself, let alone for the three of them.

Brienne is gone, the space on the duvet where she’d sat is long cold. There’s an indent, though, where she had been, and Jaime foolishly presses his hand against the fabric. Jaime found that once he began talking, the words flooded out of him like a burst dam. Brienne sat in her chair again, eventually, and listened as he told her stories from his childhood in no particular order. Most of it certainly made little sense to her, as fragmented and out of context as his presentation was, but she’d listened, sipping on the wine he’d poured for her.

He told her about their mother’s funeral, and how they’d been almost relieved to move upstairs--grief made Tywin more stringent and severe, not that anyone would ever have described him as kind. Seeing him less was a blessing, at first, until they learned it came at the cost of their freedom. Jaime tells her of Cersei’s dramatic campaigns to keep them entertained, and of Tyrion as a toddler. He tells her of sitting on the roof with Cersei, and thinking of jumping.

Brienne watched him the whole time, blue eyes calm and free of judgment, and Jaime could only think of how they reveal an intrinsic quality in her--steadfastness. He dozed off near dawn, head resting on her lap, and it was foreign, so poignant, that he felt overwhelmed. 

He woke to find Brienne looking down at him.

“Sorry,” he told her.

Brienne only smiled and shook her head, “You can stay.”

* * *

It’s the four of them, now, back on the top floor of the house, staring at the plaster wall with all its blank and unassuming deception. Lord Tywin’s burying of the truth was effective--Sansa would be utterly confused by the space without Tyrion’s explanation.

“Would...Queen Cersei want to be present for this?” She looks at Tyrion and Jaime.

“Better for her not to be,” Tyrion answers, “She’d prefer our secrets kept as they are.”

“You’d know better than either of us,” Sansa responds. It was her preference, regardless, to keep the queen away if possible. _ We belong to the house, and Jaime belongs to me _ keeps floating in her thoughts.

“Lady Brienne, do you want to do the honors?” Tyrion says.

The rest of them look to her, and her gaze skitters between the three of them before lighting on Jaime like it’s his permission she seeks the most.

“Please,” Jaime answers.

Jaime gives her a small smile, and Brienne returns it with one of her own. Brienne’s smiles are a rarity. The effect is compounded when she puts her hand on Jaime’s shoulder, just the briefest contact, but Jaime’s expression says that Brienne has bestowed a gift upon him.

_ A swordfight indeed_; she and Brienne are going to have a conversation later.

Sansa looks at Tyrion, instead, who rolls his eyes and gives her a look that definitely says _ my brother is a fool_. Brienne can be, too, though, where her heart is concerned. Mayhaps she’ll say a prayer, later, ask to Seven to grant them clarity. _ Such a silly prayer, though. _

And, even though her conversation with Tyrion the day prior had been half-jest, Brienne is holding the mallet. “Stand back,” she commands.

Downing the wall is the work of minutes--Brienne could probably down the entire house before she tires. She hits the plaster, cracking it and sending chunks flying behind her. At one point, Tyrion steps to the side to give her a wide berth. Jaime looks on in awe, and doesn’t move even when puffs of dust from the plaster filler the air.

“If only you’d shown up twenty years ago,” Jaime stares at the newly-revealed door.

“I’m not sure I could have managed this as a babe."

Sansa giggles, and Jaime chuckles, too. Only Tyrion misses Brienne’s brand of humor. Jaime laughing _ with _ her is another sign that _ something _transpired between them. 

The four of them stare at the newly-revealed door, unmoving. Sansa is curious enough to open it, but polite enough to wait for Tyrion or Jaime.

“It was my damn idea,” Tyrion says, eventually, and take the steps forward needed to reach the knob. Sansa half expects it to be locked, but the door opens outward, pushing the chunks of wall along the wooden floor. 

Sansa imagined this moment, more than once since Tyrion told her the truth of the top floor of the house. And, as usual, Sansa’s imagination had gotten the better of her; she’d envisioned some dark, horrid space--an appearance to match the way the story made her _ feel_, something that matched the expression on Tyrion’s face when he told her.

The space _ isn’t _ like that, though, which is somehow more terrifying.

Windows line two sides of the room, letting in the afternoon sunlight. The dust is worse than in the rest of the house, where someone thought to cover the furniture in the unused rooms, but no one had done so here. 

_ It’s just a room_, Sansa thinks as she looks around, _ three beds, a table and chairs, a wardrobe. _

“Were you expecting something more macabre, Lady Sansa?”

“A-are my thoughts _ that _ transparent?”

"_Yes_," Brienne dusts off her hands on her trousers as she speaks, “You’ve the loudest thoughts of anyone I’ve ever met.”

Sansa wants to jump to her own defense, but it isn’t the time, not when Tyrion and Jaime are peering through the door like they need to draw lots to see who will be punished by entering first. 

“We’re not craven, brother” Jaime declares.

Tyrion snorts, “Speak for yourself.”

Finally, it’s Jaime who strides through the door, and the three of them track his movement across the room. He opens the windows, one after the other until the breeze from the Sunset Sea catches the curtains and upsets the dust, and he coughs into his sleeve. They follow into the space after him, and Tyrion exhales so loudly that Sansa wonders if he was holding his breath since Jaime entered the room.

“Five years,” Jaime looks at his brother.

Tyrion inspects the space, disrupting the dust on the wooden floor. He stops by a window, hand running over the wooden trim. “Cersei tracked our height, here.”

Jaime inspects the pencil marks, too far away from Sansa to make out, “Our sister was a different person, then.”

“I’m barely taller now than the last time she recorded it.”

“We would have wasted away without her,” Jaime looks to the three beds, gaze lingering on the one closest to the left wall. “She was creative.”

“Until she became cruel,” Tyrion turns to where Jaime’s looking, “And she _ certainly _ didn’t entertain us the same way.”

Jaime’s still staring at the bed, “No, she didn’t.”

“Entertain--” Sansa whispers, and Brienne takes her wrist, shaking her head.

“Leave them,” she whispers back, and Sansa nods.

Jaime inspects the rest of the furniture, one piece after another, then puts his hands on the window sill and leans out. “Fuck you, old man!” Jaime yells into the wind. “Fuck this room, and fuck you for needing to manifest a _ ghost _ to deal with your guilt. And fuck the legacy you foisted upon me and expected me to _ thank _you.”

“He’s gone mad,” Tyrion mutters, but one side of his mouth is quirked upwards in a grin.

“No,” Brienne says, and surely Tyrion notices, too, the soft expression on her face. “He’s mending.”

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as usual for all the reviews!


	11. and people just untie themselves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The subsequent day-and-a-half after knocking down the attic wall is the most content Jaime has felt since his time spent with Arthur Dayne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for your weekly dose of unhappy Lannister kids!
> 
> This week's chapter title comes from Florence + the Machine's song "Various Storms and Saints."

The subsequent day-and-a-half after knocking down the attic wall is the most content Jaime has felt since his time spent with Arthur Dayne. Even then, his contentedness was one of exhaustion--he fell into his bed every night, muscles aching and dreaming of the knight he thought he could someday be. He could be strong enough to stand up against his father and rescue his siblings. He could _ help _ people. When he didn’t dream of knights from the Age of Heroes, he dreamed of Cersei--and when he was lonely, he went away inside his mind and remembered her.

Tyrion and he spend the morning in Tywin’s study, working their way through the finally dwindling pile of their father’s ledgers. Jaime half wants to find another journal, some further apology or justification, but he feels the desire for the discovery much less than the days prior. 

“Father would _ hate _ to see you perched in his desk chair like that,” Jaime tells his brother, whose head can barely be seen behind a stack of notebooks.

Tyrion peers to the left side, “_You’re _ the heir. Do you wish to trade? Brush up on your arithmetic?”

“I’d never deprive you of such a fine use of your skills.”

There’s a scoff from behind the paper piles and the scratching of a pen on paper. Seated on the floor, Jaime sorts through a box of deeds and contracts.

“Tyrion, what should we do with the house?”

“Certainly Father wouldn’t have wanted _ me _to have a say in such matters.” Jaime can’t see Tyrion, but can imagine the wry expression on his face by the tone in his voice. 

“Fuck what Father wanted or didn’t want; it’s my house, and I’m asking you.”

“Well,” Tyrion hops down from the desk chair and stands before Jaime, “Do you intend to live here, now or in the future?”

“Gods, no. Do _ you _ want to?”

“I’d rather die, honestly. What do you intend to do with Tommen and Myrcella? They’re yours, now by blood _ and _ by law.”

Jaime hesitates, thinking of how Cersei had snubbed his idea. Tyrion had found Jaime’s ideas shortsighted before, but he rarely reacted as violently as Cersei. “I was thinking of taking them to King’s Landing. They’re nearly ten, and they haven’t left Casterly Rock.”

“You don’t want them to grow knowing they’ve been confined,” Tyrion guesses, "They already know that the only family they had didn’t want to see them or think of them."

“And that’s a pain that lingers,” Jaime presses his hand to chest, over his heart, “I’d spare them that, or spare them _ more _of it.”

Tyrion puts his hand on Jaime’s shoulder, a comforting gesture, “They were ill-advised, but not unwanted.”

"Should I have fought harder to see them?"

“I never knew how to fight Father, and I stayed here much longer than you did, attempting it. Spiteful defiance was my only recourse, and I’m unsure of its effectiveness.”

“I want to sell Casterly Rock, I think.”

A mock affronted gasp leaves Tyrion, “_ Sell _ our ancestral seat?”

“To hell with our house; I’ll offer it to Uncle Kevan first, but beyond that...there _ has _ to be a better use for it. How many sitting rooms with furniture covered in dust clothes do the three of us need? We live in King’s Landing.”

“The place would make a charming brothel.”

A jest, but the seriousness of Tyrion’s tone makes a laugh burst out of Jaime, “There’s the way to get Tywin Lannister to haunt Casterly Rock.”

“_ Please _ don’t think of the logistics for it; I’m already trying and need to cease.”

They fall silent, and maybe Tyrion is pondering ghosts, too. Jaime shuffles, ineffectually, a pile of papers from one stack to another. 

“Did you...really see Mother?”

“Are you asking if I was so drunk that I _ might _ have been hallucinating?”

“...Yes.”

“It’s...possible,” Tyrion looks at her picture above the mantle, “I never knew her, only this painting, and maybe it’s just my grief. I _ want _ to believe I saw her, as foolish as that may sound.”

Jaime looks at the painting, too. How many days, and nights, did Tywin spend staring at this painting? He tries to imagine his father, sitting alone in this room, haunted and scribbling in his journal. 

“Can you imagine him sitting in that chair,” Jaime points to the desk, “feeling _ guilt? _”

“Mayhaps that’s better proof of the supernatural than Mother leading me up the stairs.”

“I’m...glad we went,” Jaime looks back to the pile of papers, “And I’m glad that we told people, even if Cersei hates it. Should we try and take her? ”

“You’re welcome to try and drag her from her room and convince her.”

Jaime remains undecided, so he focuses on the task at hand. “We need someone to type and organize this nightmare.”

Tyrion brightens, “I think I know _ just _ the lady.”

* * *

“What have the two of you _ done _ to this room?”

Sansa puts her hands on her hips, surveying the state of the space--the cluttered desk, the piles of ledgers, and Jaime sitting on the floor like a child who made a mess of his toys.

She’d been reading when Tyrion fetched her, asking if she wanted a project that would help with her investigation. After a week, Tyrion already knew to appeal to her curiosity, which was mildly frightening. Worse, she’d confirmed his success by following immediately.

“We’re organizing,” Jaime genuinely sounds like he believes that’s what the two of them are doing. 

“The lady’s expression says that’s not what it looks like,” Tyrion answers.

“This room looks like when my brothers Bran and Rickon ask my lady mother to _ help _ with something,” Sansa looks at both of them, “They’re children, by the way.”

Both Lannister brothers look admonished--their expressions are identical, and she laughs into her hand. 

“Lady Sansa, if you’re willing, please put my brother out of his misery and relieve him of his duties.”

“_Fine_. I know where I’m not wanted,” Jaime stands, “You really are the better choice as hier, Tyrion.” He looks relieved to be excused, though, waving his hand at them as he leaves.

“What,” Sansa pauses, looking around the room again, “...is the goal here?”

“Father’s record keeping for the last few years was...bad,” Tyrion says the last word as though he was looking for something more descriptive and failed.

Sansa occupies the space where Jaime had been sitting, sorting through the paper piles. It becomes clear to her that this task isn’t the work of a day, but it’s satisfying, to turn the mess into neat stacks. 

“Before you chased Lady Brienne around Flea Bottom, you typed?” Tyrion asks after they’ve been working in silence for some time.

“I did.”

Tyrion gestures to a stack on the desk. “Can you transcribe these? The Tywin Lannister I remember was so meticulous, so I’m unsure what happened here.”

“Grief,” Sansa answers as she rises from the floor. She takes off her jacket and pushes up the sleeves of her blouse. “Perhaps he realized what he’d done, at the end. I can type these.”

Tyrion’s hand brushes hers when he passes her the stack, and Sansa takes them so quickly she nearly drops them. If Tyrion notices, he doesn’t react, and Sansa sits at the typewriter facing the window. They fall into silence again; the only sound in the room is the clacking of the keys. 

“I was supposed to wed Loras Tyrell in three moons.” It’s a non-sequitur; when Sansa turns around, Tyrion looks at her as though he’s trying to piece together why she said it. 

“I assume from your tone the engagement did not go as planned?”

Sansa shakes her head, “Ser Loras is kind, and handsome, but I....caught him with Renly Baratheon.”

Tyrion raises his eyebrows, “_Ah_. That was the end, I presume?”

“Ser Loras loves Lord Renly,” Sansa could see it plainly on his face during the last conversation they had, “I just wish he’d _ told _ me; I wouldn’t want to come between the happiness of two people.”

“Most ladies would just feel slighted.”

“Probably,” Sansa agrees, “I was relieved. I would’ve spent my life as window dressing; even though Ser Loras is kind, he always would’ve wanted another. I would be part of his performance, even if I’d never discovered the truth. The match was Lady Olenna’s idea, and she _ certainly _didn’t know, and he would have unhappily done his duty.”

“Highborn children spend a lot of time unhappily doing their duty.”

“I was foolish when we met,” Sansa looks back out the window, “He visited Winterfell when I was twelve. I thought he was the knight from a story I’d been waiting for, like Florian the Fool.”

Tyrion chuckles, “That would make you Jonquil, Lady Sansa.”

“My favorite story as a girl. Stupid, right?”

“No, but Florian falls in love with Jonquil after he spies her in a bath.”

Sansa blushes, hidden by the fact that her back is turned to Tyrion, “‘’Six Maids in a Pool.’ So, maybe Florian the Fool was a bit improper.”

“If Jaime’s in good humor, or drunk enough, he’ll sing it,” Tyrion laughs.

“Oh gods, he should sing it to Brienne,” Sansa turns back to Tyrion, “She’d blush red as an apple and tell him to shut up. It would be endlessly amusing, if mean-spirited.”

“Nettling Jaime could fill my days. so I understand.”

Sansa smiles, and Tyrion smiles in return, and everything feels lighter than yesterday. She stands up and goes and to lean against the edge of the desk.

"Today," she asks, "How are you, after yesterday?"

"You should turn your worry to Jaime and Cersei; they need more care than I."

Sansa furrows her brow, "Queen Cersei is terrifying, and you look after Ser Jaime. Brienne seems to like her sword fights with him, too."

"Ah, yes, _ sword fights_," Tyrion smirks, "Jaime kissed her, you know."

Sansa didn't, actually, and her expression shows it, "I _ knew _ something had transpired."

"Because they comport themselves like lovesick school children," Tyrion lets out a fond laugh, "Upstairs, yesterday, they kept _ looking _ at one another. My brother has no experience; his idea of flirting consists of lewd japes and juvenile insults."

"And yet, he's probably the most eligible bachelor in King's Landing."

"Have you ever heard talk of him _ actually _ courting anyone?"

Sansa recalls conversations among the women in her boarding house, "Come to think of it, no."

"Because he doesn't, _ ever._ Until now."

“She’ll be good to him."

Tyrion looks away from her, "Jaime’s not meant to be alone, and he has been, for a long time."

"And don’t you?” Sansa asks, “Need someone, I mean?”

Tyrion laughs, “I’m not my brother, Lady Sansa; I keep _ plenty _of company.”

Sansa knows she should stop before she becomes rude, but the nagging feeling in the back of her mind won’t abate, so she continues, “Is it...good company, though?”

“Are you adjudging me, Lady Sansa? I’m sure you know my reputation,” Tyrion doesn’t sound angry, but Sansa’s wouldn’t know how to identify it, even if he was mad. There’s an even-toned glibness to most of his words, which skews her ability to read him.

“N-no,” Sansa stumbles, unusual for her, “I know about the needs of men; I work amongst men all day, who flirt with me despite having wives, and who call me _ sweetling,_ and touch me without asking. I know what they want.”

“Is _ that _how you think I am?”

“No,” Sansa blurts, then recoils back in embarrassment, “You praised my intellect, and asked me for help because you knew I had a skill. There’d never be a problem if all the men in King’s Landing treated me as you do.”

“But I fuck whores and rub elbows with unsavory people,” Tyrion guesses, “And you’re having trouble reconciling that. You thought I’d be a lecher.”

“I--I wasn’t sure what to expect,” Sansa admits, “May I ask you an improper question?”

“I’m not one for propriety, Lady Sansa.”

“Is that...the only affection you think you deserve?” 

Tyrion freezes, and Sansa looks at him, unwavering. She’s still half a foolish girl, with stars in her eyes and stories of knights in her head, but Tyrion trusted her with his secret, and that means something. He reminds her a bit of Brienne, who thinks she’s unsuited or unworthy of all sorts of things.

“I comport with who will have me; people of low-birth are much more accepting of the Imp.”

Impulsively, Sansa wonders what Tyrion would do if she embraced him, not that she has the bravery to actually complete the gesture. “I’ve been _ comporting, _ as you put it, with you for an entire week.”

“Because I had information you sought, for work, nonetheless.”

“Yes,” Sansa hopes her blush isn’t as fervent as Brienne’s, and Tyrion won’t notice, “but I liked the game of getting the information out of you, so I prolonged it as much as possible.”

Tyrion can’t hide his surprise, although he tries to keep his features neutral, “I enjoyed that part, too. You _ are _ fast at typing, but Lady Brienne was right to think you wasted on it. What...if we were in King’s Landing?”

The question Tyrion _ didn’t _ ask is layered under what he _ did _ ask. _ Would you talk to me there? _ Sansa wants to tell him that, as a girl of twelve, she wanted a knight of her own who would cloak her and keep her safe. Now, Sansa is a woman grown, and respect is much, much more appealing.

Some of that seems tangential, though, so she looks at Tyrion and just answers, “I’d behave just the same.”

* * *

“Leave us.”

It’s the first word Cersei utters when she enters the study. Sansa stops typing, mid-word, and rises from her chair. She’s probably thinking there’s no option but to do as Cersei bid her.

Sansa curtsies deeply and walks to the door. “Of course, your grace,” she doesn’t look at Cersei, but Sansa does make eye contact with him. “Lord Tyrion, if you need my assistance again, please come find me.”

“Thank you, Lady Sansa.” 

Her smile as she exits the study bolsters Tyrion’s mood a little, even though Cersei is looming impatiently before the desk. If this conversation goes terribly, which he’s _ certain _ it shall, would Sansa listen as he lamented that, out of his family, only Jaime had ever treated him kindly? That Cersei and Father hated him for simply _ existing_?

“What was that _ whore _ doing here?”

Tyrion is good, better than Jaime, at not reacting to Cersei. Jaime looks stricken and lost when she speaks to him, Tyrion just leans back into his father’s chair and gives Cersei a neutral expression.

“Lady Sansa was typing some of Father’s _ extremely _ disorganized records. It may not matter to _ you_, sweet sister, buffered as you are with Baratheon wealth, but the rest of us, if we don’t want to hemorrhage money and live like paupers, need to shore up the Lannister finances.”

“We’ve plenty of money,” Cersei argues, “Father restored our house to greatness.”

“I’ll give him credit for that,” Tyrion answers, “But the last three years have taken their toll.”

Cersei scoffs and crosses her arms. Even Tyrion can’t deny that she looks regal, the bodice of her crimson dress laced with gold embroidery. Anyone in a room would bow to her, which is exactly why he won’t.

“Your burning off the money on drinks and whores surely played a part.”

_ Ah, she’s spoken, and now her beauty has vanished_.

“Actually,” Tyrion allows her to witness a smug smile, “Father never added money to the funds he gave me. I’ve been downright miserly.” He never bothered to check the account before, but the records were here, and he found himself pleasantly surprised.

“The Stark girl will spill our secrets, and you let her in here to rifle through Father’s records.” Cersei is paranoid, made worse by being in this house. 

“I trust Lady Sansa, and she made more headway here this afternoon than Jaime and I did in days.”

“I suppose she’s interested in whichever one of you will have her--batting her pretty eyes at both of you,” Cersei goes to the typewriter where Sansa had been sitting and glares at the empty space. 

The true irony is that while Cersei turns her gaze to Sansa, it blinds her to who their brother is _ actually _ looking at. Brienne would never be someone Cersei would even consider as her rival. She also _ still _ thinks Jaime will return to her. Tyrion almost can't stop himself from smirking at the concept.

Tyrion _ doesn’t _ sigh and roll his eyes. “Cersei, why are you here? It’s not as though we enjoy speaking to each other.”

“Mother,” she looks at the painting above the mantle, so Tyrion does, too. “Have you really seen her?”

“That’s a hard question to answer.”

"Why haven’t Jaime or I seen her?” Cersei whirls back to the desk, “Why would she visit _ you_?”

“Mayhaps because I never knew her in life.”

“You don’t deserve to know her! You _ killed _ her!”

Tyrion is tired, honestly, of arguing with Cersei; she won’t relent, is immune to logic, and her hatred of him runs too deep to ever be undone. 

“If you’re here to repeat that, leave,” Tyrion doesn’t fear telling Cersei _ no_, queen or otherwise. “I could work on this until midnight and still not be done.”

“You can’t command me, Imp,” she yells, which diminishes her authority. A hysterical Cersei is not one Tyrion is going to listen to.

“Then _ I’ll _ leave,” Tyrion slides out of the chair, “Make yourself useful in my stead; do some bookkeeping. Lay off the drink while you do it--it makes the numbers blur.”

“Don’t compare me to _ you_,” Cersei hisses, reaching out like she’s going to slap him, but he isn’t quite in her reach.

“Why? Does it _ sting_, to be compared to the Imp? We’ve much in common; we share a mother, and a father, and a brother, although you’re _ much _ closer to Jaime than I’ve ever been. We even share a vice.” 

Gods, he’d kill for some wine at this exact moment; he might even share it with Cersei, if it would shut her up. Tyrion pities Jaime, who’s borne the brunt of her outrage for the last decade.

“We’re _ nothing _alike!”

“I’m not fond of the similarities, either.”

“Mother,” Cersei lowers her voice, “was she angry when she visited you? Did she blame you for killing her and for making Father lock us up?”

_ No, sister, you’re the only one that does that_. He stops, hand nearly on the door handle, and looks back at Cersei, “She’s sad, for us, that we’re at odds with one another, and that we’re unhappy. She led me upstairs.”

Cersei’s eyes widen, “A-and you _ went_?”

_ She’s frightened, too_. Really, _ this _was the commonality between them--fear. He feels a wave of sympathy for her, then. Cersei was a girl, once, locked away just as he had been. She looks like that girl again, the one who mended his clothes and played with him.

“We did,” he answers, “Jaime will take you, if you ask.”

“_Never_. What’s the point in going back there? Mother should _ hate _ you. She should visit _ me_, not the one who murdered her. Father was right to hate you.”

Before she can add another syllable, Tyrion slams the study door behind him.

* * *

“Shouldn’t we stop?”

Sansa’s the one that asks the question; they’re crowded around a small table in the parlor that faces the Sunset Sea. It’s clear, today, afternoon sun glimmering off the water. Even though Brienne is used to seeing the sun rise over the Narrow Sea, the view is similar enough to conjure a pang of homesickness in her.

Maybe, when all this is done, she’ll pay her father a visit. Evenfall, like Casterly Rock, needs more life in its corridors. Brienne doesn't like to think of her father, all alone, but it’s her fault for going to King’s Landing. Her father is a stern man, and would never say anything, even if he missed her.

“I’m sorry, Sansa,” Brienne shakes her head to clear the fog, “Can you repeat that?”

Sansa gestures to their notes, the coroner's report on Tywin’s death, and the other papers piled on the table. “The investigation. Should we stop?”

“Are you satisfied?” Brienne knows she _ isn’t_, but she’s unsure how much of it has to do with the investigation. “Do you feel like you...know everything?”

Sansa shakes her head before twisting a lock of her hair around her finger, “Lord Tyrion told me there’s _ more _ \--something he can’t reveal. Then there’s the ghost, that he’s _ maybe _ seen, and who do the children belong to?”

Unlike Sansa, Brienne has a _ terrible _ time masking her emotions. _ There’s one significant thing you don’t know, and I can’t tell you_. Telling Sansa would create guilt, and _ not _ telling her does the same.

“I’m not satisfied yet, either. Even if we...might be running out of things I can quantify.”

“We can’t put _ half _ of this in an official report, though,” Sansa gestures to the papers, “_Upstairs _\--I won’t reveal any of that. We can just say Lord Tywin died with the estate in disarray. I spent all morning typing and organization financial records. Lord Tyrion says it’s untenable without intervention.”

Tommen and Myrcella are another thing Brienne won’t reveal in a report; although they are more tangible and relevant than ghosts or botchlings. “I agree,” is all she can manage.

“Brienne, Lord Tyrion told me Jaime kissed you--”

“Why would he tell you that? _ How _ does he know?” 

Sansa starts giggling, which lightens the mood at the table, “Ser Jaime must have told him.”

_ Why, why, why would he do that? _ Brienne knows she’s nothing to brag over, so she can’t imagine Jaime telling his brother like how men of the City Watch brag of their _ conquests_.

“It’s--” she starts, “I don’t know what to say.” Jaime’s trust in her confuses and thrills her. It makes her feel guilty for being so judgmental; it makes her want to hold him. She ran her fingers through his hair while he slept, too afraid to do it when Jaime was awake.

“If you’d like to talk, I’m here.”

Brienne takes a deep breath, “Thank you.”

“The two of you look deep in contemplation.”

The voice interrupts them, and both Sansa and Brienne turn to the sound; Melisandre strides into the sitting room, red gown trailing behind her.

“Lady Melisandre,” Sansa stands to greet her, “It’s good to see you again.”

“Did you enjoy our conversation from the other day?”

Sansa smiles, and Brienne _ thinks _ it’s genuine, “It was...illuminating.”

“Has the house revealed anymore of its secrets to you?”

“No,” Sansa lies, “Have you learned aught else?”

Melisandre smiles and raises her eyebrows, “You lie well, child. I won’t pry--for a time. The Lord of Light reveals all things to me, and to you as well.”

“And what has the Lord of Light revealed to _ you_, Lady Melisandre?” Sansa’s tone is utterly conversational.

“I’ve been speaking to the groundsman, Clegane; he rooms near our quarters in the guest house. I asked him about infants born at Casterly Rock.”

“The botchling in the yard,” Brienne speaks for the first time since Melisandre’s arrival.

“You don’t believe, Lady Brienne?”

“Of course not; it’s an old wife's tale heard in fishing villages.” Jaime’s expression when Clegane had mentioned it--he’d looked frightened.

“You’re limited by your inability to recognize more than what you can see with your eyes.”

“There’s plenty to look at without ghosts and creatures of legend,” Brienne finds Melisandre’s presence grows more distasteful by the moment.

“There’s two children in this house of unknown parentage,” Melisandre turns to exit the room. “Clegane says no children have been born here in his tenure. That means the last were Tommen and Myrcella. Who’s to say there wasn’t a third?”

* * *

It’s late, nearly sunset, when Brienne comes to him, sword at her hip, and Jaime finds that clashing blades with her is not what he wants from her, at least not first. 

“Leave that for a moment,” he commands when she stops a few paces from him.

She furrows her brow, wary, “Is the sword not why I’m here?

“In part, yes. Do you fear my intentions, wench?”

She crosses her arms, “I don't fear you, but I don't know what to think of you, ser.”

“Then come here and don’t think of anything at all,” he smirks at her in a way that he _ thinks _ will work. 

He does _ nothing _ to attract women in King’s Landing. Old wealth was a powerful aphrodisiac, apparently, and word of his continued refusals never seemed to dissuade anyone. Even being too forward and crass didn’t deter them. Sometimes, Jaime tries to see what _ they _ must be seeing, but he only sees Cersei when he looks at himself. His sister is as beautiful as she is a nightmare, so that’s what anyone who looks at him too closely _ must _see.

The wary caution in Brienne’s eyes doesn’t abate, so Jaime tries another tactic, “I mean to kiss you, if you’ll have me. Or does the high of clashing blades make it better for you? I could be convinced to delay, if that’s the case.”

Brienne looks like she’s never, ever had a thought like that in her entire life. Jaime wonders, then, if he’d mistaken desire for consideration, affection for empathy. She’d looked at him with such care, in the dark of her room, in the brightness of the attic.

“It’s easy,” he tries his last tactic, the most desperate, “for me to assume you don’t want anything to do with me. It's where my mind goes, first, when you look at me like that.”

“That’s not true.” He’s barely done speaking when Brienne blurts the words. She pauses before finishing, “I just don’t know...what to _ do_.”

“Thankfully, I _ do _ know what to do. Do you think I’m telling you a falsehood?”

A shadow passes over Brienne’s face, and Jaime knows, then, where _ her _ mind went at his coy approach. With every interaction, she waits for the bottom to fall out. Coyness could easily be mocking.

“I don’t know why you’d reveal such secrets for a jape.” She looks at the ground, “I’m glad you confided in me, even as merely a friend. Logic tells me you’re honest, but I don’t see _ how _\--”

“--Anyone could want you,” he finishes.

Brienne nods, and the echo of his own insecurity he finds in her makes the method to reach her obvious. “I believed you when you told me I wasn’t unworthy. I trust that you meant it. It wasn’t easy, and I doubted it the whole way.”

“I wasn’t lying,” she’s scowling down at him, like he’s given her offense.

“Neither am I,” he answers, “but does certainty come just from those words?”

“N-no.”

“You’re right; it doesn’t.” Cersei’s words repeat, the same prophetic nature as when she’d first said them.

“Then where does it come from?” Brienne sounds so disappointed that Jaime immediately wants to go to her and soothe it away.

“Trust, I think, earned, which maybe I haven’t yet, or can’t.” Now, he’s the one scowling, “Faith, then. I’ll place mine, the little I’ve left, into your words.”

Brienne takes in a gulp of air, and Jaime sees the way her breath hitches as she does so. The last thing he wants is for her to shed tears over him. Her eyes are swimming with them, though, and he’s called to her like the moon and the tide--Jaime _ knows _ it’s serious when he starts thinking in romantic analogies. The pull is real, though, so he goes to Brienne and stops before her.

“Don’t do that for me--I’m not worth it, truly.”

“You cried for yourself; don’t tell me what to do.”

“You’re a stubborn wench.”

If Brienne intends to respond, Jaime truncates it by pressing his mouth against hers. He takes her face in his hands and swipes his thumbs over her freckled cheeks. The gesture collects her tears along the way. “Don’t, please,” he whispers into the minute space between them before kissing her again.

Brienne responds slowly, like it takes her a few beats to accept the event as reality. Jaime noticed it both other times they’d kissed. The first he assumed was sheer shock, and the second his stomach dropped for a terrified moment where he’d thought her too disgusted by the truth to touch him. Now, though, Jaime has faith and waits. Brienne comes willingly when he takes the lapels of her jacket and walks them back until he bumps into a tree.

When she _ does _ respond, though, it’s worth the wait--she wraps an arm around him and presses her hand, palm flat between his shoulder blades. Instinct must be driving her because the kiss she answers his with has little resemblance to the gentle, timidness of their prior two encounters. They’re clumsy, but it matters not--she kisses him like she’s trying to steal the air from his lungs, and she’s making a fine attempt at it. Jaime isn’t sure where his hands should land, so keeps them pressed against her face, fingers sliding through her hair. 

The drive behind her movements opens a window of possibility to Jaime. It’s not a bad thing, when she removes her hand at his back and crowds him against tree instead. She might outmatch him, if she used her full strength. And he’s delighted, really, at the way she blushes when she looks down at him, like she’s embarrassed that she lost track of herself for a moment. All Jaime can think his how genuine Brienne seems, and that she’s looking at _ him _with those astonishing eyes. He feels little shame in clinging to her when she drops her forehead to his shoulder.

Jaime’s mind and body are in agreement--he wants her. If Brienne asked, he’d pull her to the ground and take here, here and now, even though his mind is at war over whether that’s a prudent idea.

“This is good--_ you’re _ good,” Jaime isn’t even sure what he’s trying to tell Brienne. He’s gone so long without wanting _ anything_, that his desire for Brienne’s approval, for her to keep touching him, feels so intense he almost panics. “I’ll ruin it.”

Brienne looks up at him, they’re not in combat, but something Arthur Dayne told him long, long ago comes into his mind--_a man’s eyes will tell you all you need to know_. She’s flushed, but Brienne’s eyes are calm; it’s the same expression as when she holds her sword.

“I believe in you.” 

“Do kisses make you so weak in the knees as to increase your confidence in me?”

“_Ugh_. Nevermind.”

Jaime laughs, content to kiss her again, under the bower of the trees as the clearing dims. His good humor is sunlight, ephemeral and guaranteed to wane, but perhaps he can capture some to hold until dawn. The idea that the feeling could return, though, is transformative.

Then, there’s a rustle from the overgrown bushes, and a cold shiver that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Brienne notices the change in his posture and furrows her brow. 

“Jaime--” 

He shakes his head abruptly, and Brienne silences. The chill hasn’t left him, and Jaime peers over Brienne’s shoulder, squinting as though it will help illuminate the murkiness. The rustling repeats, and Brienne tenses, hand reaching for her sword at her hip. 

Jaime moves to do the same, until he realizes he left his sword at least twenty paces away in the grass. Arthur Dayne would berate him for days over such a lapse, and no amount of explanation would halt it. 

“You _ left your sword? _”

“I was--”

“Too much time at cocktail parties,” Brienne mutters, “Stay here.”

“As the lady commands.”

Jaime nearly protests that he can protect himself from rustling in his own garden, but Brienne probably has more experience reacting to strange, unseen noises than he does. The idea of Brienne defending him sends a thrill through him. 

Another thing Jaime didn’t know interested him, apparently.

Brienne doesn’t draw her sword, but she approaches the underbrush ready to do so. The rustling repeats, accompanied by keening sound that makes the chill Jaime feels even more acute. The atmosphere has changed--the fading sunlight was soothing--now it seems to hide unseen things. Even the wind rustling through the leaves seems mournful.

“Brienne,” Jaime walks to her puts his hand on her elbow.

“You’re a bad listener, ser.”

An eerie sense of _ knowing _ overcomes Jaime--if there is _ something _ in the bushes, it _ has _ to be-- 

“Brienne it’s---”

“Probably an animal,” Brienne’s tone leaves no room for nonsense.

_ What Father saw, and Clegane, and the children. _

She unsheathes her sword, using it to part the leaves as the keening repeats, louder and more sorrowful. Jaime feels his blood freeze in his veins, and he grips Brienne’s arm. He catches a glimpse of _ something _ before it scurries under the foliage. _ Small, hairless. _

Brienne looks at him, “What did you see?”

“I--what did _ you _ see?”

“An animal...I-I think,” she speaks slowly, “This place is really overgrown; it could have been anything.” The last half comes out in a rush.

“Anything,” he repeats. _ But was it? _ Jaime must look frightened because he sees the concern in her expression. She looks so _ calm_, and it acts like a balm. “Are you always so calm?”

“It comes with the job,” she answers, but there’s a frantic edge to her voice Jaime hadn't heard before. Brienne looks back to where the creature scurried off. The area is quiet once more. “T-that was--”

“An animal,” Jaime repeats, “Certainly, right?”

“There’s no other explanation.”

“You’re not prone to flights of fancy, are you, Lady Brienne?” Jaime’s hopes his affected glibness doesn’t fall flat. Brienne’s proven oddly astute, and this runs counter to what he wants. 

“Not anymore,” Brienne looks back at the bushes, “Do _ you _ think your mother’’s ghost haunts the house?”

“She hasn’t visited me,” he answers, but all Jaime can think is _ Joffrey_.


	12. the kindest of kisses breaks the hardest of hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Queen Cersei told me Jaime belonged to her. I thought the wording odd, but now...the babe, Joffrey, has to be theirs.”
> 
> Sansa half wants Tyrion to laugh and call her wrong for such an absurd theory--he’s stopped smiling at her.
> 
> “The product of the confinement,” Tyrion says, “Although, I think it only exacerbated something that already existed between them. Father never understood that about them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't meant to sound ominous, but we're heading into the climax of the plot, and this is the last calm chapter. As Jaime and Tyrion improve, Cersei worsens. 
> 
> I'm gonna start warning for content, just to be safe. This chapter contains more explicit references to infanticide. Nothing more graphic than before, just less oblique. This could be pieced together from context already, but Cersei was like fourteen when she had Joffrey. There's also some off-screen drug use. It's probably overboard to warn for this stuff, but I don't want anyone to stumble on content they don't want to read.
> 
> This week's chapter title comes from the Florence + the Machine song "Hardest of Hearts."

Jaime tries to approach Cersei regarding the children the next morning--her door is unlocked, but Jaime finds her sprawled on the chaise under the window, two bottles of wine at her feet. He calls her name, once, but when she doesn’t stir, Jaime closes the door.

She’d only talk about how Shae had stolen Tommen and Myrcella from her, regardless. Or how _ he _ wanted to take them and claim them for his own.

No, their wellbeing came down to a decision he would have to enact on his own. It frightens Jaime, a low murmur of anxiety that fills the back of his mind--not overwhelming, but not abating. He’d chosen to be alone, but he’d also stayed the course Cersei set him on, even apart from her.

This will be something he decides on his own.

He finds Shae in Tommen and Myrcella’s room, across the house on the second floor. Jaime’s been in their room twice since arriving at Casterly Rock. It’s more lively than the attic ever was--a pile of toys, some outgrown, spilling out of a toy chest, and books piled haplessly on the shelves. Even unknowing captives, the room looks like they _ live _ here.

It brightens Jaime’s mood.

“Lady Shae.”

Shae turns to him, “I’m no lady, my lord.”

Jaime knows, but he’ll call her one regardless--she’d done more for his children than either Cersei _ or _ him.

“Do you think Tommen and Myrcella would like to live in King’s Landing?”

Shae’s face falls, the hurt at being parted from the children evident in the downward set of her mouth. Then, a mask of professionalism takes its place. “They love reading about Westeros; I think they’d love it, my lord.”

“I was...considering taking them, once we’ve settled affairs here,” Jaime pauses, “Father can’t keep them here any longer, and they’re---”

_ Mine? My responsibility? _Jaime isn’t sure which to say, or what Shae knows or suspects.

She puts a hand on his arm, and smiles softly, “I know.”

Jaime searches her expression for some sort of recoil--disgust, judgment, _ something_, and finds none. “I know little about children. Would you come with us? You’re more mother to them than--anyone else.”

Perhaps Shae will see it as a quality of life improvement, to live in the bustling capital instead of a musty old manor.

“I’d be honored to,” she answers before Jaime has a chance to give more detail. “I...know they’re not mine, but I love them.”

“Y-you’d be paid, of course,” Jaime truly hasn’t thought out the logistics of it yet. They can’t live with him in his Kingsgaurd chambers, so he’ll have to secure a dwelling for them. And, selfishly, perhaps, he wants to live _ with _them, to know them and watch them grow as he hadn’t been able to do thus far. “I...haven’t considered all the logistics, yet,” he admits, “but I wanted to ask your willingness. Thank you, for all you’ve done for them in my stead.”

Shae is still smiling at him, “You’ll make a fine father to them. I suggest finding them and telling them, but prepare for their enthusiasm.”

* * *

When Jaime finds the children in the rose garden, he witnesses someone else who doesn’t seem prepared for their enthusiasm: Clegane.

Tommen and Myrcella’s brand of enthusiasm, this morning at least, seems to be asking him questions in unison. It’s off-putting to Jaime, but surely Clegane is accustomed to it by now. 

"Go away, brats," he looks ready to swat at them with his rake. 

Watching Clegane thwart them is amusing enough to make Jaime slow his approach, but he's spotted, and the decision is made for him. 

"Jaime!" They say his name in unison, and it _ isn't _ eerie for the first time. The two of them, calling for him, calling him _ anything _ engenders a warm, bright feeling in his chest. Maybe Brienne _ is _ right, and he's worthy of the two of them, too.

"Take them," Clegane barks, "I'm not _ their _ fucking nanny, either."

"No one would wish you as their nanny," Jaime quips before turning to the children, "Can I talk to the two of you?"

They're before him standing side-by-side. Clegane grumbles something and goes back to tending the roses, the unkempt bramble of them spreading across the ground, blooming in a chaotic pinks, reds, and whites.

"Would the two of you like to come to King's Landing with me?"

Their eyes widen in unison, but after that their reactions show their individual natures. 

Myrcella says, "But we're not allowed," and Tommen shouts, "Yes!"

"I decide what's allowed, now. If you'd like to go, I will take you."

"But Grandfather said--"

"I know what Father said,” Jaime repeats, “but are you _ happy _here?”

They both look at him with their matching eyes, “It’s home.”

_ A home that’s a prison is still a home_. Jaime remembers the anxiety of freedom, and the structure training with Arthur Dayne had returned to his days. The period in the middle, though--the days of _ choice_, even though he was still confined to Casterly Rock. The house seems overwhelming, then, after spending day after day in the same space. He’s offering Tommen and Myrcella an entire city; he’d offer them all of Westeros to make amends to them.

“A home is people,” Jaime answers. The attic with the three of them was more _ home _ than the rest of the house because they had been together. He’d never asked Cersei if she missed it in some strange way, afterwards, the routine and predictability. Their lives went in different directions after that, though. “All of Westeros is beyond Casterly Rock; you’ll be together, which is what matters.”

“I’d...like to see the Red Keep.”

“And a joust!”

Jaime _ won’t _tell Tommen they don’t hold tourneys like that too often anymore. 

“Leaving is...hard,” Jaime kneels down to be eye-level with the two of them. “I was older than you when I left, but...Father kept me here, as he did to you.”

“Grandfather...did?”

“I thought he hated us.”

They both look so forlorn, and Jaime understands the depth of it, “He didn’t hate you, or m-me. He just...couldn’t deal with us.”

_ Fuck. That’s the most pathetic explanation. _

“Because we look like Grandmother.”

_ And me. And Cersei. _“Lady Shae said she’d accompany us. I can’t just leave the three of you alone here, and I don’t want to live here.”

Myrcella scowls and takes Tommen’s hand, “No one’s ever asked us what we think about anything. I want to go.” 

Tommen nods and looks to his sister, willing to go along with what Myrcella wants. The dynamic makes a wave of nostalgia crest over Jaime--he would have looked at Cersei the same way.

He looks back at Jaime,”Does that mean _ you’ll _be our father?”

_ Do they know? _They’re both staring at him, unblinking. A lump forms Jaime’s throat.

“I’ll be...something like that.”

* * *

Sleep isn’t going to grace Sansa with its presence tonight. 

Frustrated, she tosses her book onto the floor; it lands, soundless, against the rug. In Winterfell, which was _ never _this quiet-- if sleep eluded her, she could go to the godswood, or tell Rickon a ghost story as she had when she was a girl.

There’s no need for a ghost story here, though--if Sansa wants one, she knows where to go searching. She gets out of bed and puts on her dressing gown and slippers. Her hair is unbound for sleep, but she isn’t planning on calling on anyone, so she leaves it thus.

The house is silent, every living being clustered together on the second floor. Nevertheless, she does her best to keep her footfalls silent as she moves upward, holding her candle aloft to illuminate the space when moonlight proves inefficient. There’s a stirring of guilt in her--no one barred her from the top floor of Casterly Rock, but no one had given her expressed permission that she could return, either. The space calls to her, demands a second look, and she’s long been at the mercy of her curiosity in situations like this.

The mystery unravels slowly, like thread on a spindle, and if she keeps pulling, she’ll get to the end of it.

Sansa stops at the open doorway, stepping over the chunks of plaster that still litter the floor. Illuminated by moonlight, the room is just as innocuous as it had been in the sunlight. _ To spend five years in this room_. Sansa stands in the middle of the space and closes her eyes, tries to imagine it, and finds that she wants for the ability to do so. She felt trapped, before, doomed to live a life absent of the choices she wished to make for herself, but that doesn’t compare to this. The space doesn’t reflect the cruelty Sansa knows happened here--the three of them were provided for, certainly, and never wanted for necessities in the way children in Flea Bottom did. She remembers Tyrion’s words: _ we might as well be animals in a stockade. “You were fed and clothed, which is more than you deserve.” _

She looks out the window at the Sunset Sea beyond the edge of the cliff face Casterly Rock sits atop. She traces the same route Jaime and Tyrion had two days prior. She runs her fingertips over the dusty blankets covering the bed, imagines the three of them, children, confined to this room. She reaches a dresser, where her touch wipes the dust clean from the dark wood. The space is absent personal effects--no clothes, or toys, or books remain as reminders that three people spent _ years _ here.

Nevertheless, Sansa places her candle on the top and pulls open the highest drawer of the dresser; it’s a bit too high for her to see the inside, so she runs her hand in the drawer, hoping for _ something_, but expecting nothing. Her hand catches on a piece of fabric, and her stomach does an excited drop.

_ It’s probably nothing_, she reminds herself as she lifts the fabric, _ but it could be something. _

The candle provides enough light to see detail; the scrap of fabric is a bib, small enough for a newborn. The fabric is a faded crimson with even stitching, but certainly made by someone younger than Sansa herself. She remembers making these when her mother was pregnant with Rickon--small attempts to be helpful. She’d mocked Arya for her terrible needlework, and Old Nan had scolded them both.

The bib is embroidered with a name in gold thread.

_ Joffrey_.

“Another child?” Sansa says to the darkened room, voice carrying enough that she feels like she’s screaming, like everyone downstairs will make out the words clear as a bell tolling from the Red Keep.

Propriety be damned, Sansa moves downward through the house to knock on Tyrion’s door.

* * *

Tyrion answers, shockingly, even though it’s certainly closer to dawn than midnight. Sansa decided she’d only knock once, and softly. 

“Lady Sansa?”

The reality of calling on him, considering the hour and dressed as she is, hits Sansa like being dropped into cold water. She clutches her dressing gown and drags the auburn curtain of her hair over her shoulder.

“I--I have a question,” she blurts foolishly. 

“A pertinent, pre-dawn question, apparently.” There’s a teasing edge to Tyrion’s voice, not mocking, though, and he _ does _ open the door further. “Well, come in, not that there’s anyone here to spy and spread some rumor.”

Sansa touches the bib in her pocket and gathers her strength, tries to calm her nerves. Tyrion’s room looks much like the one she’d been given--red and gold and _ just _ ornate enough to prevent anyone from settling in comfortably. That’s probably exactly how Tywin Lannister wanted a guest to feel in his home, welcome, but ever on edge.

“You’re awake late,” she begins with the type of smalltalk she’s been taught, silly when what she really wants to talk about is so close.

“You don’t find that sleep seems ever out of reach in this house? Unless one wants the inevitable blackness that comes from drink.”

There _ are _ a significant number of wine bottles littered around the flat surfaces in the room.

“I...read,” Sansa replies, “It didn’t work tonight, so I went for a walk.”

Tyrion raises his eyebrows, “I can guess where you went.”

The bib comes out of her pocket, lays flat in her palm. She’d walked slowly down from the top of the house, pieced together all the facts in her mind in the only way that made sense. Tyrion stares at it, Sansa watches him, and the silence stretches between them.

“It was in the dresser,” she explains, “I wanted to see the place again, to try and _ understand_.”

Tyrion keeps his gaze on her hand, “Understanding won’t ease the feeling it gives you. I _ know _ the logic, and it’s no comfort.”

“This belonged to an infant,” Sansa says, “The botchling in the yard.” She’s _ confident _; she’d sign her name on a report stating the assertion.

What Sansa _ doesn’t _ expect, is for Tyrion to smile, like he’s proud of her. “Joffrey,” he repeats the name in the embroidery. “ _ This _is luck, though. I’ve never seen this before.”

“You haven’t?”

“Or if I have, I’ve forgotten. Keep going.”

“You’re...not angry?”

“I told you that you’d figure out the rest soon enough.”

“That doesn’t mean you _ want _ me to know,” Sansa argues, “It means you think I can connect the clues.”

Tyrion is _ still _ smiling, “If you’ve the intellect to solve the case, you deserve the truth. Keep going.”

Sansa wants to impress him, suddenly, and the feeling nearly distracts her from the thread of logic in her mind. This feeling--the cusp of a discovery melded with wanting to show someone her worth, is a heady combination. 

“_ If _ the botchling in the yard is real,” Sansa sticks with tangible facts, despite the flights of fancy in her mind, “then it _ must _ be this Joffrey. Even if the botchling _ isn’t _ real, this bib is proof that an infant existed, or was going to exist. The botchling’s existence means the babe died, but the child also isn’t _ here_, which gives credence to a death.”

“Good.”

Now, though, Sansa gets to things that are harder to speak aloud. “Only the three of you were confined there, though.” This almost _ can’t _ be true, but the logic points to it. “Queen Cersei told me Jaime _ belonged _ to her. I thought the wording odd, but now...the babe, Joffrey, _ has _ to be theirs.”

Sansa half wants Tyrion to laugh and call her wrong for such an absurd theory--he’s stopped smiling at her.

“The product of the confinement,” Tyrion says, “Although, I think it only exacerbated something that already existed between them. Father never understood that about them.”

“They’re lovers,” Sansa blushes at the word, “And if Joffrey was theirs...Tommen and Myrcella?”

The smile is back, “The same. Although, much later. Joffrey is why Father ended the confinement and sent Jaime away.”

“Siblings. Twins. _ Lovers_.” Sansa stares at the bib, still flat in her palm, “They picked up where they left off.”

“Because they knew naught else,” Tyrion plucks the fabric out of her hand. “I told you, Lady Sansa, that the truth was worse than what your imagination could conjure.”

“And Joffrey, the babe....dead?”

“By father,” Tyrion closes the fabric in his fist, “Who either regretted it, or didn’t think he could get away with it twice. So, he just confined them here.”

Sansa thought she’d reached the ceiling of how horrified she could be, but Tyrion fills in the gaps with details that shock her yet. 

“Are Queen Cersei and Ser Jaime still---?” _ Brienne_.

Tyrion shakes his head, “No. Not for years, much to Cersei’s displeasure. You’re thinking of Lady Brienne?”

“She needs to know this. _ Deserves _to.”

“Jaime isn’t like me; he punishes himself by remaining alone. He will tell Brienne, and she will be the first.”

“Brienne will accept it,” Sansa is certain, “I--I don’t judge you, either. And none of this will make it into our report.”

Tyrion laughs, “I _ entirely _forgot the two of you were here on business. The crown will certainly appreciate your discretion, although I don’t much care who’s told.”

“None of it matters,” Sansa replies. She might be talking about the report, or how the truth colors her emotions. “Victims blame themselves, sometimes. It’s easier than accepting that something happened is beyond your control.”

That earns Sansa a smirk, “You’re speaking of me?”

“Yes,” she bends down so they’re on an even level, “Although, I’d say it to all three of you.”

You speak of Lady Brienne’s kindness, but you’re quite the gift yourself, Lady Sansa. And certainly a better conversationalist.”

Sansa laughs and pulls her hair back over her shoulder; it nearly hits her bent knees. “She just takes a moment to warm up to.”

“She’s much too tall; although my brother doesn’t seem to mind,” Tyrion jokes, “He’s tall, too, though.”

“A sore spot between you?”

“Jaime doesn’t know,” he sighs, fond of his brother and irritated in turn--Sansa understands. “I’d kiss you, I think, if I were someone else.”

“Why-why do you need to be someone else?”

_ I’m a foolish child for blurting that, not half as clever as he just praised me for being_. And Sansa is _ mortified _ for saying something so untoward. 

“Why _ wouldn’t _I need to be?”

“Because you respect me,” Sansa decides to see where things can go, “And you haven’t mentioned my appearance, once. And I-I’ve an affection for you.”

Then, confidence settles over Tyrion, and he reminds her of Jaime. Although, mayhaps much of his brother’s confidence is feigned. “I _ thought _ our conversations had an undertone.”

Sansa flushes, and tries to recall that she was ready to be wed in three months, that she’s a woman grown and makes her own decisions. “I wasn’t doing it on purpose, my lord. It was just fun.”

Tyrion puts a hand on her shoulder, catches a lock of hair in his fingers. “You know the man I am.”

“I know what you think you are,” Sansa corrects, “Have you no need of something genuine?”’

Tyrion answers by kissing her, softly with no insistence behind it. The gentleness startles her, knowing only the hands of men she _doesn’t _want touching her. And, mayhaps, the women at her boarding house would laugh that she’s sitting on the floor in her nightdress while Tyrion stands before her. They might think it silly, that Sansa isn’t thinking about Lannister fortune or social standing.

They’re the only two souls awake in this drafty house; Tyrion asks her to stay, not with words, but Sansa hears, and feels, the question clearly enough.

* * *

Breakfast is an amusingly awkward affair.

On the surface, it doesn’t _ appear _ any more ridiculous than any other morning since arriving at Casterly Rock. They’re still an absurd assemblage of people. Tyrion’s own behavior only worsened the tangle; he can’t bring himself to regret it, though. _ Shameless_, their father had always called him. Indecent and indecorous, unworthy of the Lannister name by birth _ and _ behavior. He'd always thought _ fuck it_. Be what Tywin sees, and be it _ grandly. _

None of them had been at Casterly Rock long enough to have seats at the table tacitly assigned from repetition. Brienne’s talking quietly with Jaime--Tyrion peers at them over the rim of his coffee cup. Jaime’s openly staring at the big, homely City Watch officer. They definitely haven’t fucked yet; it will show, plain as dawn, on Jaime’s face when they do. 

The only open seats are next to Shae and himself, and watching Cersei decide which is less palatable to her is a delicious moment.

“Sister, you’re joining us this morning. I trust you slept well?” Tyrion greets her when she sits next to Shae.

“Well enough,” Cersei sniffs. It’s plain that she’s lying--there’s a gauntness to her, and her hands are jittery when she reaches for the pot of tea. “Is there wine?”

“Not for breakfast,” Tyrion admonishes, “Are you _ me_?”

Cersei's response is a glare.

_ The cocaine again. Maybe with wine, maybe without_. His sister certainly goes through her prescription at a much faster rate than her doctor would approve of. It’s a fine line to toe, and Tyrion has witnessed the wrong side of it more than once.

The hatred in Cersei’s gaze means little, though, when Sansa arrives and chooses the seat at his left. She usually sits across from him, closer to Brienne, chatting with her to carry awkward Brienne through the meal. In Sansa’s presence, Brienne utters full sentences.

“Good morning, Lord Tyrion.” Sansa's greeting sounds a _ little _ stilted, and her smile is a nervous sort of polite, “Could you please pass me the sugar?”

“Of course, Lady Sansa.” 

Sugar in hand, Sansa drops a spoonful into her coffee, stirring it slowly. She’s wearing a blouse, a dove-gray and buttoned high on the pale column of her neck. Tyrion imagines undoing the button, and the next, until there’s something to see, enjoys that he _ knows _ what the sight would be. Her modesty appeals to him--a quality he’s unaccustomed to in a woman. 

“I...trust you slept well?” 

The query sounds like it's meant to ruffle her, but it's the first pleasantry Tyrion thinks of, and it's out of his mouth before the implication sets in. Sansa's places her cup in her saucer loud enough that it clatters; no one notices. Her cheeks approach the color of her hair as she stares at her plate. 

_ She blushes prettily_. He thought the same last night, when she’d chosen to reveal herself to him. Sansa blushed like a maiden, but she learned quickly and bantered with him the entire act. Tyrion’s uncertain if he should tell her that, though; Sansa _ knows _ she’s beautiful, and knows the difficulties it causes her. From their first conversation, it was clear that appearance wasn’t the way to compliment her. Praise the attribute no one notices--her intellect. 

"I stayed awake too late," she answers.

Tyrion chuckles at her insinuation that everyone else would miss. “Sleep in this house isn’t restful, so sometimes there are better ways to occupy one’s time.”

“We’re going to King’s Landing!” Tommen shouts, interrupting Sansa from responding. He and Myrcella are tucked into the two chairs between Shae and Jaime, another change in seating that reflects the shifting nature of relationships.

“Not for a while,” Myrcella adds. Even when they were toddlers, she was the more pragmatic of the two. 

Cersei gives Jaime a look that could disembowel a man caught unawares. “King’s Landing?” she echoes. “_ You’re _ taking them?”

“Yes,” Jaime answers to her, to the table, “Because they deserve more than to stay here.”

_ Good_, Tyrion thinks, _ stand up to her. She’s like Father in that way, no one was brave enough to take him to task. _ Of course, Tyrion was no better--he only used spite to make his feelings known to Tywin Lannister. His rebellion was ever childish.

“And who will you say they belong to?”

Everyone freezes. _ We all know the truth, but no one is talking about it. _That was the crux of all their problems--a dozen unspoken conversations between them.

Jaime takes a deep breath and looks straight ahead, “I’ll say they’re mine.”

The table erupts into chaos at that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to know what everyone thinks!


	13. dreaming of the dead as if death itself was undone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime expects quite a few things after making his intentions known at the breakfast table--Cersei flying at him in a fit of rage, Tyrion asking if his sanity had finally given up the ghost, even Tommen and Myrcella asking him a barrage of questions.
> 
> What Jaime doesn’t expect is Sansa Stark staring down in the hallway of the guest wing, hands on her hips and looking as though her next move is charging at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, it's been a minute, but he's another chapter! I have a chapter and an epilogue left to write of this, and damn is it taking FOREVER.
> 
> This week's chapter title comes from the Florence + the Machine song "Blinding."
> 
> As far as content warnings go, Jaime suffers some minor domestic violence in this chapter. You can probably guess from whom.

Jaime expects quite a few things after making his intentions known at the breakfast table--Cersei flying at him in a fit of rage, Tyrion asking if his sanity had finally given up the ghost, even Tommen and Myrcella asking him a barrage of questions.

What Jaime _ doesn’t _ expect is Sansa Stark staring down in the hallway of the guest wing, hands on her hips and looking as though her next move is charging at him. 

“Ser Jaime.”

“Lady Sansa,” he answers. They can fall back on highborn etiquette, at least until the girl reveals her hand.

“There’s something I wish to speak to you about,” Sansa continues, walking the paces needed to minimize the distance between then. “...Privately.”

Well, Casterly Rock is nothing if not private; all Jaime has to do is open a door to find one of the endless unused rooms. He does so, and Sansa follows him in. When the door is soundly shut behind them, Sansa turns her icy blue gaze on Jaime.

“What are your intentions toward Brienne?”

“...Excuse me?”

Sansa emits a haughty sigh, and repeats herself, “_ Brienne_. Lord Tyrion told me you’ve made advances toward her.”

“I-I don’t have any intentions.”

_ That was the incorrect thing to say. _

“So you’re just toying with her?” Sansa could give Cersei some tips on sounding intimidating; she crosses her arms and gives Jaime a look so judgmental he feels like he’s literally shrinking.

“No,” Jaime finds his footing; he isn’t going to let himself be scolded by this _ girl_. “We just haven’t had an opportunity to...discuss it.”

What does Sansa expect him to do? Bend down on one knee and propose marriage to Brienne? As though she would say yes. As though he is in a position to offer himself to her, to _ anyone_, in that way. Who would marry him, with all the shit he carries on his back?

“She’s my friend,” Sansa answers, tone much softer, “She protects me, and I wish to return the favor.”

Some of the tension leaves Jaime’s posture, and he leans against a bureau lining the wall. 

“We’d all be better off with someone to look out for us as you’re doing with Lady Brienne.”

“Then you understand the basis for my question.”

“In case you’re somehow unawares, Lady Sansa, I’m _ not _having an easy time of things right now,” Jaime thinks he sounds especially snippy, but the veil of pleasantries is stretched thin. “I don’t know what you expect from me.”

“I’m sorry if our presence has complicated things,” she answers, “_ This _ wasn’t why were sent here, and now we’re airing out your ghosts, maybe against your will.”

“No, I let you all through the gate,” Jaime shifts, uncrosses his arms and tries to look less defensive. “I...hoped someone would uncover the truth.”

"And Brienne tried so hard not to pry." Sansa smiles, "She wanted to respect your privacy."

"I don't think I _ want _ privacy. Part of me is stuck in this fucking house, and I want to be free of it."

"Brienne and I were talking about what to disclose in our report when we return to King's Landing. We think we should leave out nearly everything. Lord Tywin's death really _ isn't _ suspicious."

"...Unless you believe in ghosts," Jaime whispers.

Sansa steps closer to him--her skirt almost brushes against his trouser legs. "You think there's veracity in it."

"Too many people have seen _ something_."

"Your late father, Lord Tyrion, the children," Sansa lists, "and that's _ just _ Lady Joanna. If we include the botchling, it's even more."

"Brienne and I saw _ something _ in the side garden yesterday." Jaime wants to believe that it was a raccoon, but the cold shiver running down his spine tells him otherwise. 

"And what were you doing in the side garden?" Sansa's tone is lilting--is she _ teasing _him? 

"...Sword fighting."

"Now _ that's _a euphemism if I've ever heard one."

"_Fine_," Jaime blurts, indignant, "we were _ kissing_, like school children."

Sansa outright giggles, "We can keep calling it swordfighting if you'd like."

"You're...you like teasing more than I expected."

"Brienne finds it tiring, too," Sansa reaches into the pocket of her dress and pulls out a scrap of fabric, "Melisandre told me botchlings only grow angier if left unattended."

Jaime feels cold again, like there's a weight pressing down on his chest. "It wasn't a raccoon we saw. Brienne might be able to convince herself, but I--"

Sansa uncurls her hand, revealing the crumpled fabric, "The botchling is...Joffrey?"

_ Joffrey_. He recognizes the scrap of fabric, remembers Cersei embroidering it under the window, remembers the dread in the pit of his stomach as he watched her do it. Even then, he knew there was no happy ending to the situation. Sansa's hand has stilled, and she's watching him. 

"Where did you get that?"

"Upstairs," Sansa replies, "I went back last night. It was in a dresser."

Cersei would scream, probably slap Sansa for her impudence. Jaime is surprised when he feels relieved; it's the removal of another weight, another part of his life he doesn't have to bury. 

Jaime takes it from her, "You figured it out from just this?"

Sansa flushes; it's subtle on her, a rosy tinge on the apple of her cheeks. It's so different than Brienne's dramatic embarrassment.

"N-no, I extrapolated, but Lord Tyrion confirmed it. I was trying to wrap my mind around the whole thing, so I went and looked again. It was improper of me."

"Think nothing of it," Jaime means it, truly. "Tyrion suggested I tell Brienne. He was right; it felt...freeing, to confide in someone. He needs that, too.”

They needed outside people, who weren’t mired in their shared history._ I wish Cersei had someone_. He'd tried that, though, even when he wasn't in a position to do so. 

Nevermind the implication that Tyrion and Sansa were clearly talking in the dead of night. He talked with Brienne later than was proper, too, but they hadn’t only _ talked_. Sansa’s expression gives nothing away, though.

“I wish there was more I could do,” Sansa leans against the bureau next to Jaime, “There’s no _ justice _ for what’s been done here. No one to arrest, no reparations to pay, no law that needs changing.”

“There’s no need--"

“There _ is_, though,” Sansa stomps her foot against the floor, “it’s always like this. I’d resurrect your lord father and kill him myself, if I could. It’s _ horrible_.”

Sansa’s looking straight ahead, brow furrowed in frustration. Her dedication to the cause makes Jaime chuckle.

“This might sound peculiar, but thank you for your indignation.”

“You’re welcome.” Sansa glances at him and repeats her prior question, “What have you told Brienne?” 

“Everything except,” Jaime looks at the scrap of fabric in his hand, “_this_. I couldn’t get the words out, I guess--I was so _ tired _ after, I just couldn’t.” Revealing the truth to Brienne made him feel raw, like when their mother would bathe them after playing outside and scrubbed his skin until it hurt.

“Good,” Sansa nods decisively, “I suppose I was worried you...wouldn’t tell her, and that’s a heavy burden not to disclose.”

“To have anyone learn the truth and not flee in horror--Cersei told us, told _ me _ that no one would understand.”

"She's wrong, right?" 

"You and Lady Brienne prove that."

“And there’s your justice, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

Sansa smiles at him, “You lived through it, now you live beyond it."

* * *

Brienne spends the morning trying to pen a letter to her Father. It seems remiss not to inform him that she’s halfway across Westeros. Although, now that she puts pen to stationary, all the words used to describe the experience vanish from her thoughts.

Selwyn Tarth is a taciturn man, and Brienne inherited the disposition. Their letters are sparse in both length and frequency. It's been two months, at least, since Brienne heard from him. If Tarth and Evenfall still stand, and he's hale, there's little else to say. 

They don't really discuss _ feelings_, which is probably why this letter isn't coming easily. 

_ Sansa and I were sent to Casterly Rock to investigate Tywin Lannister's death_. _ I thought you should be informed, since this letter will be posted from Lannisport, and you might wonder why I'm not in King's Landing. _

She wants to tell her father how much this house reminds her of Evenfall; that there's too many rooms and too few people to fill them. So, she writes that, stares at it for a few minutes, and goes on.

_ It makes me think of Mother and Galladon_. _ The house was so quiet when it was just the two of us. _ It must be even quieter with only him, but he'd never admit it. _ I was thinking of visiting, once this assignment concludes. _Her father will hug her, and it will make up for every awkward, stilted letter exchanged between them. 

Brienne's entertaining the ridiculous notion of asking Jaime to come with her, not that she would ever have the constitution to do so, when she hears raised voices in the hall.

“How _ dare _ you speak to me like that. I’m the _ queen_.”

“Queen or otherwise, there’s a presence in this house, and you’d be wise not to deny it.”

_ Why am I always made to eavesdrop on conversations? _ When people are screaming in the hall just after midday, it’s hard _ not _ to listen. Well, Cersei is screaming. Brienne recognizes the other voice, too--Melisandre sounds as she usually does, honeyed and slightly foreboding. 

“The only _ presence _in this house is all the rabble my fool brother let in,” Cersei answers.

“Lord Jaime was wise to let us stay,” Melisandre sounds all the more even in contrast to Cersei, “there are unfinished matters in this house.”

“_ Lord Jaime was wise, _ ” Cersei repeats in a snide tone that little resembles Melisandre’s own, “You’re the first person to _ ever _ call my brother wise.”

Brienne denies herself the urge to move to the door and peer through the keyhole.

“The babe that died here, on these grounds--I think you’ve knowledge of it.”

There’s a long-- a _ too _long--patch of silence. “There’s no such thing,” Cersei replies.

“We’ve all seen or felt the presence, Queen Cersei,” Melisandre sounds patient, now, like she’s speaking to a child. “Obfuscating the truth will not make it go away.”

“And what do _ you _know of the fucking truth?”

Melisandre replies, “That the babe that died here has the same parentage as Tommen and Myrcella, and that both of those parents are present at Casterly Rock.”

Melisandre told Brienne she was limited by only believing what she could see with her eyes. _ The third child. The look of fear on Jaimei’s face_.

“_How? _”

“The fire reveals all, and deductive reasoning does the rest.”

Brienne _ nearly _ laughs at that, but manages to quell it. 

“Does the fire show what drink has shown the Imp? Or what guilt showed Father? They saw our mother. Tyrion said she wasn’t even angry at him for killing her.”

Melisandre chuckles, “The Lord of Light has many ways. Has _ nothing _been shown to you, your grace? In the fire, or in dreams, or perhaps even in your waking hours?”

“And why would it?”

“Guilt, perhaps. A regret.”

“And what would I possibly feel guilty over?”

* * *

“You’re the _ last _ person I want to see right now.”

“We can’t avoid this conversation forever, Cersei.”

Jaime’s conversation with Sansa bolstered his resolve. _ Live beyond it _\--it was good advice; he’d rolled it around in his mind all morning, trying to devise a way to actualize it. 

If he can finish this, he’ll never have to come back here.

“I’ll avoid what I like,” she snips, turning away from him to her window.

The sea is smooth today, a perfect mirror of the blue sky.

“That’s part of the problem,” Jaime answers, “It’s all we do.”

Cersei turns to him, anger etched in her expression, “And what would have me do? Apologize to Tyrion? Sob about what Father did, or why my children don’t know me? What’s the point?”

There are tactics to speaking with his sister; Jaime just forgets to employ them at times. “I’m not here to debate fault with you, or discuss our shared trauma. I meant what I said at breakfast about Tommen and Myrcella.”

“And what can _ you _ provide them?”

“Freedom,” Jaime answers, resolute, “_School_, hobbies, friends. Something better than we were given. It’s not too late to spare them.”

His sister crosses her arms, “And what of their mother?”

_ Gods, she’s so selfish_.

“We can’t force them to...” Jaime struggles for the language, “have the relationship with us that we might want. Father ruined that, no matter what you might say.”

“He had no choice but to clean up our mess.”

_ He should have punished us_, _ instead, _ Jaime wants to say. They had been, though; they were still being punished.

“I won’t keep them from you,” Jaime repeats, “I don’t know how else to proceed beyond taking them from here.”

“You’ll enjoy playing _ father _ why everyone in King’s Landing gossips about Jaime Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, returning from the Westerlands with children in tow.”

“Do you think I care about my reputation?”

Cersei scoffs, “You ought. Beyond wealth there’s nothing else with more power.”

“You sound like Father.”

A grave insult that would make both Tyrion and Jaime adjust their behavior. Cersei just laughs.

“Good. He never noticed who his heir should've been.”

A frustration fills Jaime that is so acute that he wants to scream, or break a vase, or _ something_. “I’m asking for your opinion out of some spirit of generosity that you don’t deserve. I’ll do what I think is best given the limited options. If you want to be part of it, let me know.”

Cersei yells _ something _in reply, but Jaime is out in the hallway and doesn’t hear.

* * *

“_Why is she angry with me_?”

Tyrion recognizes _ that _ voice; Sansa clearly does, too, because her guise of politeness drops long enough for her to wince at the shrieking in the hall. He should get up and lock the door, should’ve done that _ first _\--there’s no peace in the house without locked doors, as much as he wishes that wasn’t the case.

The door is flung open, the sturdy wood sails toward the wall until the hinges halt it and it bounces back halfway.

“_You_,” Cersei steps through the door.

“...Have seen better days, sweet sister.”

Sansa graces him with a _ look _ that indicates he should have thought before he spoke. _ Ah, Lady Sansa, I’ve never done that_. He’s speaking the truth, though; Cersei’s clutching her dressing gown about her torso, and her hair falls in tangles around her shoulders. Tyrion notices the residue of white powder under her nose. _ She can’t keep doing this._

“I _ saw _ her.”

Tyrion’s blood turns to ice. There’s no ambiguity as to whom “_ her” _ refers.

“Mother,” Tyrion answers, more to himself than to Cersei, or even Sansa. “Where?”

“In my room,” Cersei wobbles and has to brace herself against the doorframe. “She--she’s _ mad _ at me!”

“Imagine that.”

“_Lord Tyrion_,” Sansa interjects. He’d been thinking of kissing her before Cersei knocked down the door, and now he’s glad he didn’t. Has he ever been glad to _ not _ have done something like that? Cersei witnessing that wouldn’t end pleasantly for either of them.

Then, _ then _\--had Cersei really witnessed what he’d witnessed?

“How do you know she was angry?” _ Gods, do I really want that answer? _

“Her--her _ expression_,” Cersei says, and her voice is filled with such anguish. “The look in her eyes, like when she’d scold me for teasing Jaime. Her _ disappointment_. You wouldn’t know.”

“I wouldn’t,” Tyrion meant to sound glib, or snide, and only managed _ sad_. He knew, for a second, or his drink-addled mind _ imagined _ that he knew what her touch felt like. “I’d have happily felt her disappointment, to know her.”

“Then you shouldn’t have killed her!” Cersei’s voice increases in pitch, “Why is she angry with me, and not you? I--I’ve done _ nothing _ to make her angry. I just wanted to see her, to have her talk to me--”

She starts crying, and it’s _ horrible _ because it conjures a pang of sympathy in Tyrion’s chest that he thought was long-dead in him. Positions reversed, Cersei wouldn’t spare him a single drop of it. Sansa, still as a marble statue from the garden in the chair next to his, looks stricken. _ She’s your family_, her expressions says, and if it weren’t the two of them, Tyrion might agree.

“Cersei--” He doesn’t know what to say after, but he says her name regardless.

“You don’t deserve to see her,” his sister continues; she doesn’t make any attempt to wipe at the tears streaming down her cheeks. “I tried to ask her _ why _ she’s angry. I’m a queen, and Jaime is a knight, and she wouldn’t care about _ you-- _”

“Cersei.”

It’s Jaime who calls their sister’s name this time, appearing in the hall behind her. Tyrion had been gladdened at his brother’s improved mood for the last few days, but the boon of it has vanished from his expression. Jaime looks as he did in King’s Landing, worn down under the tyranny of Cersei’s volatile mood.

“_Brother_,” she turns to him, “I told Mother we were fine, and what Father wanted us to be.”

Jaime’s eyes fall shut, “We’re far from fine, aren’t we?”

“She wouldn’t speak to me. I asked and asked,” Cersei balls her hands into fists, “I’m a Lannister and a queen; I don’t _ beg_, but I did. To hear her, I would--”

His brother puts a hand on Cersei’s shoulder, which halts her words, but not her tears.

Sansa looks trapped; the only exit to the room is past the debacle before her. Tyrion wants to apologize to her. To be sent here, for fucking work, and end up immersed in _ this. _

“Come to bed,” Jaime says, “You need to sleep.”

Tyrion wonders about Jaime’s phrasing, like he’s going to join her, hold her while she cries. Does he mean it, or is it some holdover from the past?

“Don’t order me,” Cersei jerks away from his touch, “You’ve no right.”

“You’re seeing ghosts, Cersei,” Jaime answers, “It’s the fucking house.”

She looks calm, and for a beat, Tyrion admires Jaime’s ability to talk their sister down. Then, Cersei reaches up and slaps him, the crack of her hand against his cheek echoing in the room. 

Sansa gasps, hand to her mouth.

“You agree with Tyrion,” Cersei glares in his direction, “You always side with him. Even when we were in the attic, you _ always _ defended him. Even though you _ know _ it’s his fault!”

That’s a sign of how addled Cersei is, that she’s screaming about the attic within earshot of Sansa. Not that it _ really _matters, but it’s unlike her.

“I think that’s enough of a heart-to-heart for one evening,” Tyrion climbs down from the chair he was occupying and walks toward the door. “Go to bed, Cersei, maybe Mother’s ghost will be kinder on her second visit.”

“Please,” Jaime pleads.

Cersei reaches for an unlit candlestick and hurls it at Jaime’s head. Her aim doesn’t have to be true for the blow to connect against Jaime’s temple; he winces, but doesn’t stagger, but Tyrion doesn’t think that’s really the point.

“Fuck both of you; if Mother’s angry it surely must be at you two for disappointing Father.” 

Cersei storms out, and a door slams down the hall. Jaime looks at Tyrion, and follows her out. Will this be the night that Jaime breaks and returns to her? What does Cersei have to do to make that wish a reality?

Sansa’s there, though, when he closes the door and turns away from it. She’s wide-eyed and silent, but she holds out her hand to him, and it’s a small, but much needed, comfort.

* * *

“You’re bleeding.”

Jaime reaches up and touches his temple. He looks surprised at the blood on his fingers. “_Oh_. She has good aim with a candlestick.”

“A candlestick,” Brienne repeats.

He moves his hand to his right cheek, “I suppose she slapped me first.”

“_Jaime_,” Brienne rises from the edge of the bed and takes a handkerchief off the dresser. He looks surprised when she presses it against his temple. “I--I heard. I should have come and helped, but I thought it might make things worse.”

_ Gods, that I didn’t even step in to help--I should resign when we return to King’s Landing. _In any other setting, she would have thrown herself between a victim and an assailant without a single thought.

“It would’ve,” Jaime agrees, “but I’m grateful for the sentiment.”

_ How certain he sounds. _ She thinks of Tarth, of visiting her father. _ If I could spirit him away from all this_. Running solves nothing, of course, so Brienne would never suggest it. Jaime wouldn’t acquiesce, either, and she respects that. It takes... _ something_, not to run from Casterly Rock. The weight of the space is impacting her, too.

“Are you in pain?”

Head wounds bleed so aggressively--the cut isn’t large, but blood seeps into Brienne’s handkerchief regardless. 

“Nothing that your tender care won’t soothe, my lady.”

Brienne rolls her eyes and applies more pressure; Jaime winces. 

“My tender care indeed,” she replies.

Jaime laughs, “It's tender in that it exists. Don't fret overmuch; it's just a scratch."

"Jaime, she _ hit _ you."

There's the smallest shrug of his shoulders, "She's unwell, and addled."

"That doesn't make it acceptable."

"It explains it, though," Jaime prods the cheek Cersei slapped with a finger, "And she's done worse. If I went back to her, she might do it...less."

"She won't do it again," Brienne presses her hand against the other cheek to make sure Jaime's looking at her. His beard tickles her palm.

"My knight," he gives her a small smile.

"It's the decent thing to do," she says, wonders if the next thing she wants to say is presumptuous. "How much longer do you think we need to stay here?" 

The _ we _is definitely overly familiar, but it's how the words come out, and bringing attention to it would be more embarrassing. 

"A week? Maybe less. Tyrion and I--well, Tyrion and Lady Sansa, really, are making excellent progress on sorting through the estate. I don't want to have to come back here."

Brienne nods, "You meant what you said at breakfast about taking Tommen and Myrcella with you?"

The bleeding has stopped, so Brienne lets her hands fall to her lap. She doesn't know what to make of their interaction, wouldn't presume that less than a week spent kissing _ means _ something beyond the circumstances of their location.

"Yes. I must confess I don't know what to do beyond walking out the gate with them."

Brienne knows little about children, and the twins are _ particularly _ odd, but nevertheless, "If there's anything I can assist with, now or when we return to King's Landing--just ask.”

"I'm so _ tired. _It gets better, for a few hours, and then worse. I don't even know what's keeping me together at this point."

"Perseverance."

Jaime shakes his head, "I just want to sleep until someone _ else _ handles everything. I'll awake back in King's Landing, and it'll be over."

"If there's anything I can--"

"A distraction."

“I must confess I’m not the most entertaining person--”

Sansa could keep a crowd engaged; she’d sing, or play the piano. The most engaged Brienne’s ever kept a crowd was probably Sansa’s housemates when she instructed them how to stab a hatpin into the artery in a man’s thigh. 

“Brienne, _ please_, don’t be coy. Another time, perhaps, and that might be quite enjoyable, but not tonight.” The lack of _ lady _ before her name is inconsistent, although her reaction to it isn’t-- a knot in her stomach and a racing heart. 

“I’m not being coy,” she blurts, “I wouldn’t know the first thing about that.”

Jaime laughs, “Of course not. _ Gods_, you’re so dour sometimes, but you’re the only light in this house.”

Brienne’s not sure, _ still_, what he’s seeing, but the distraction Jaime wants becomes clear in her mind. She kisses him near the cut, then on his reddened cheek. “It’s not right that she does this.”

“Many things aren’t right, yet they still occur.”

“Jaime--”

“You can scold me all day tomorrow for what I put up with, he shakes his head. “Now, though, I could use some of that light of yours.”

And Brienne can’t deny Jaime the boon that she offers him, however slight and impermanent. Even if it means nothing beyond this room, beyond Casterly Rock, it would be cruel not to. It will wound her, later, to have it taken away, but she’ll weather it. So, she kisses him full on the lips--the first time she’s really initiated it on her own. Jaime grabs at the fabric of her dowdy dressing gown and pulls until he’s sitting on the edge of her bed. He reaches up, tucks her hair behind her ears and smoothes his thumbs over her cheekbones.

The kiss takes a turn Brienne isn’t used to, and Jaime moves with an energy she struggles to name. Jaime has a destination in mind; he stands and turns them, steering Brienne to the bed where he was sitting. She sits, and Jaime pushes her onto her back, still kissing her with his hands in her hair. Brienne puts her left hand on his shoulder to avoid bumping against anything that might cause him pain.

Prone, Brienne stares up at him when he breaks the contact. Jaime has one knee between hers and is bracing himself with a hand near her head. The position makes the kiss feel _ scaldingly _intimate compared to the prior ones. 

“Brienne.”

Jaime kisses her again before she can answer. The kiss, she supposes, is answer enough, and when he collapses on her, she bears it easily. They’ve been this close before, but her heart races in an entirely different way. 

“I want to fuck you,” Jaime whispers, his lips pressed against her neck below her ear, “Can we?”

Brienne shivers at both Jaime’s words and his breath against her skin. She reaches around him and presses a hand against his shoulder blades. He stills completely, forehead pressed to the bed next to her.

“_Yes_,” she hears herself reply, savoring the accompanying rush of possibility acquiescing gives her. An improper thing to agree to, but who’s going to care, truly? Even back at King’s Landing, what does Brienne care for her reputation? No one would believe they were lovers anyway.

“N-not like this, though,” Jaime slides off her and lays beside her. “Later, properly.” 

Brienne shifts so they’re facing each other, feeling strangely disappointed. She’d been ready to give herself to him at this moment, and the _ later _ takes the wind out of her sails. 

“You’re the only other person I’ve ever considered,” Jaime touches her cheek again, softly, “I don’t want to do that in this house. Nothing good has _ ever _happened here.”

“L-later, then,” Brienne agrees.

“I don’t think it’s wise for me to go back into the hall for a while, though.”

“Nor do I.”


	14. and if you are gone, i will not belong here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This time, Brienne is present when Jaime awakens. They're facing one another, not touching, but her fingers, resting near her cheek on the pillow, are close enough for Jaime to reach. At some point, Brienne tucked the blanket over them; it's too short, and their feet are sticking out. 
> 
> _Well, at least it's not cold._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will admit to being a BIT hesitant to post this part. It's not a fluffy quarantine read, but it's what's next in the narrative. I apologize in advance.
> 
> This chapter's title comes from the Florence + the Machine song "Breath of Life."
> 
> Please see the note at end of the chapter for the content warning!

This time, Brienne is present when Jaime awakens. They're facing one another, not touching, but her fingers, resting near her cheek on the pillow, are close enough for Jaime to reach. At some point, Brienne tucked the blanket over them; it's too short, and their feet are sticking out. 

_Well, at least it's not cold._

It's past dawn, but not much. Jaime takes the quiet moment to _ look _ at Brienne, the woman he wants, despite all else. There's nothing to mock about her here--not the paleness of her skin in the morning light, not the fact that her hair, mostly out of it's plait, falls in whisps about her face. Jaime stares at her until it feels utterly indulgent, until he could close his eyes and recreate her freckles, her full lips, from memory.

Brienne wakes, though, as if on cue, shattering the peace of the room. Jaime will remember it, though, tucked away in the hope that he can recreate it someday. 

"You never went back into the hall," she says. 

"I suppose I didn't."

Then, Brienne _ smiles_, pure and free of anything other than happiness at having him there. 

"Good morning."

Jaime chuckles, "That remains to be seen."

He spends the morning with Tyrion and Sansa, cloistered in Tywin's study. It's as unpleasant as the last few days, but the faster they work, the sooner they can leave. Sansa sits under the window at the typewriter, transcribing Twyin's messy ledgers into something readable. 

"Gods, you're _ fast_," Jaime says from his spot on the rug. There's only two small piles left that need dealt with. 

"It's just practice," Sansa replies without stopping her work, "I'm glad to use it for a worthy cause instead of batting away the advances of old men while trying to do my job."

"Well, you’re safe from anyone's advances here," Jaime says, testing the waters. He thinks he’s being clever, but Tyrion won't miss his insinuation. 

"Utterly safe," Tyrion says, "Not a single untoward thought between the lot of us."

"R-right," Sansa says, "A much improved environment."

His brother is watching Sansa, and Jaime _ knows _ that expression. There's something between them, but he can't guess the extent. And if he pries, _ both _ of them will turn the question on him. 

Jaime isn’t prepared for that.

Tyrion smacks a stack of papers against the desk to straighten them out, "If you intend to give the house to Uncle Kevan, we should summon him back here."

"So he can repeatedly ask why I don’t want to live here? Then ignore my obvious attempts at dodging him?”

“Poor Uncle Kevan,” Tyrion clicks his tongue, “It’s not his fault our father buried us in secrets.”

“Since Father is the eldest, Uncle Kevan never thought he would inherit," Jaime explains.

"...So he should just take the house and shut up?" Sansa asks.

"... Precisely."

Tyrion laughs, "I'll send a telegraph. We'll make a day of hiding the children and signing paperwork."

A few minutes pass in silence before Jaime holds up a folder of papers, “Our birth records.”

Tyrion climbs down from the desk chair and goes to Jaime, taking the folder. “That’s us,” he says a moment later, “For what it’s worth.”

_ Birth records_. 

“Tommen and Myrcella,” Jaime thinks aloud, “They don’t have birth records; they don’t exist at all.”

“Lord Tywin made sure of that,” Sansa looks at the documents they’ve waded through. “No recorded doctor visits, no school enrollments. There’s no paper record of them _ anywhere_.”

Jaime holds the folder in his hands tight enough that it starts to bend, “Maybe I have no right, but I want better for them. I want them to learn that there’s life beyond this house, and that they don’t _ deserve _—”

“They’ll _ love _ King’s Landing,” Sansa chimes in, rises from the typewriter and rests a hand on Jaime’s shoulder. 

“But how will I explain them? I leave to take care of my father’s estate, and return within two children?”

“There will be rumors,” Tyrion agrees, “but I’m sure we can manage something believable.”

“Cersei will be trouble,” Jaime doesn’t want to say it, but it’s the truth. “That I can claim them easier than she can, she won’t abide by it. I’ve tried to talk to her—”

“Forget her, for the moment,” Tyrion seems to notice, often, when Jaime’s mind is spiraling, “I could claim them.”

Jaime raises his eyebrows, and Tyrion starts to laugh.

“I jest, I _ jest_. That would make Cersei saying something that ought not be said a certainty.”

“_ Whatever _you say, people aren’t going to believe it,” Sansa says, “You know how the nobility are. You could tell the truth and people will think it too scandalous to be real.”

Oh, how Jaime hates social politics, and _ actual _ politics. “So what should I do?”

“You could send them away to be someone’s ward, but I don’t think that’s what you desire.”

“No,” Jaime replies, emphatic, “No more passing them around to be hidden.”

“Just say they’re from a youthful dalliance, and you didn’t know they existed until you returned home,” Tyrion shrugs and returns to Tywin’s desk.

“You say that like it’s a common occurrence.”

“But it _ is_,” Tyrion waves a hand dismissively, “Bastard children are born and discovered by the scores throughout the Seven Kingdoms.”

“It’s true,” Sansa agrees, although her tone doesn’t belie how she feels about the issue, “Even my father has a bastard.”

“And their mother?”

“Does it matter?” Tyrion says, “Tommen and Myrcella know the truth, and even if Cersei longs to, she knows she can’t publicly claim them.”

“And...Cersei could see them,” Jaime tries to visualize what that life would look like, “The more elaborate the lie, the harder to maintain.”

Sansa looks between the two of them, “I know the whole truth isn’t always the best course, but don’t bury yourself in more secrets than you have to.”

From the look Tyrion gives him, Jaime’s certain his brother agrees.

* * *

"Does the little lady have an interest in exorcisms?” Thoros laughs, a gesture that seems to move his entire portly torso. He’s seated on the couch in their rooms above the carriage house. 

Sanas’s never been here before, but Thoros and Melisandre know more about ghosts than Brienne or her. She wants to help, and she can do more than typing and organizing Lannister ledgers. Not that she mindshelping with those things, too, but Sansa knows the secrets of the house, and Lord Tywin’s tax records aren’t what’s causing the grief.

The worst part is that Sansa _ is _ morbidly curious; she read about Lord of Light rituals on the train ride from King's Landing. She wouldn't miss the opportunity to see one herself. 

"I have...a curiosity," Sansa intends to sound lukewarm. "Mostly, though, I want the people in this house to find some peace."

Thoros nods, "Peace seems to be a state not often felt in this house."

_ The understatement of the century. _

"Removal of the ghosts would help," Sansa taps her fingers against her chin.

"Wise, for one so young," Thoros replies, "I never believed, myself, even as a child in the temple. The Lord of Light has shown me things, though, that I can't explain."

"Things at the bottom of a bottle?"

"Sometimes, yes."

"Maybe that's the answer," Sansa replies, "But I assume a cup of wine accompanying dinner won't accomplish it."

Thoros laughs again, "No, my lady."

“Lord Tyrion was drunk both times he saw Lady Joanna.”

“Some say that inebriation makes one more attuned to the spirits.”

Sansa raises her eyebrows, “I don’t think _ anyone _ says that.”

“You’re right; I made that up.” Thoros strokes his beard and looks at Sansa thoughtfully, “Do _ you _ believe Lord Tyrion?”

Sansa takes a moment to order her thoughts. If she’d been asked that a week ago, she would’ve answered with an enthusiastic yes. Now, though, with the burden of the full weight of the truth, the situation is more complex.

“I believe that Lord Tyrion believes.” Tyrion _ needed _ to see Joanna, and maybe Lord Tywin and Queen Cersei needed to as well. 

“But you doubt the veracity?”

“I’m not sure anymore.”

“Ah, but isn’t that harder than sending on a discontented spirit?”

“Infinitely,” she scowls, “I think I know what Lady Joanna wants, though.”

“Have you been visited by her?”

“No,” Sansa shakes her head, “but mothers want happiness for their children, and none of them have that. The reality of Casterly Rock is worse than any ghost. The house haunts the three of them.”

Thoros just nods, “And _ that _ is a peace no priest or septon can grant them.”

“Real ghosts or not,” Sansa continues, “Peace must be found if anyone is to move on. _ If _ the botchling is real, what do we do about it?”

“Lady Melisandre would be a better source for your query, but my understanding is that there’s a ritual--a naming ceremony, and a proper burial.”

Sansa thinks of the small, embroidered bib, “And if the infant has a name, or there was a name that was _ meant _ to be theirs?”

“Easier, even.”

“And this...ceremony,” Sansa pauses, lost in thought, “Lady Melisandre could perform the rite?” 

She tries not to look _ too _ interested.

“Any Red Priestess should be able to; although, I’ve never seen it done,” Thoros explains. “She’ll need the name, though.”

“I know the name.”

* * *

“I spoke to Thoros this afternoon,” Sansa says in a low whisper to Jaime and Tyrion after dinner that night; the parlor is filled with their strange assemblage of people housed at Casterly Rock, and she doesn’t want to be overheard.

“I’m sorry,” Tyrion replies, “I was free, and would’ve been better company.”

Sansa feels her cheeks heat up imagining how Tyrion would’ve suggested occupying the time; she shakes her head to focus--now isn’t the time, even if the memory is pleasant.

“It was educational,” Sansa snaps.

“Am I _ not_?”

“The ghost of your Lady Mother,” Sansa interjects before Tyrion can finish; she feels a little remorse when it immediately dampens Tyiron’s spirits. Jaime looks sullen from the chair next to his brother’s, but Sansa is more accustomed to the expression on Jaime’s face. “Describe her mood.”

“I haven’t seen her,” Jaime answers, “but you know how she appeared to Cersei.”

“Lady Joanna was disappointed,” Sansa remembers, “because the three of you have suffered so.”

“She was angry that Mother didn’t hate me,” Tyrion adds; he stops making eye contact with her, and Sansa rests her hand on his shoulder in comfort.

“Cersei tries to justify Father’s actions,” Jaime explains, “She’s done so for a long time; it’s how she copes.”

Sansa nods, “Easier, to think you invited what happened.” She’d told Tyrion something similar the night she first visited his room. “How would you describe her, Lord Tyrion?”

“Sad. Disappointed, but not by us--by _ this_,” Tyrion gestures to the house at large.

“She wouldn’t have wanted _ any _ of this for us,” Jaime looks to Tyrion, “And she’d _ never _ have blamed you for anything.”

“She told me; or, my drunken hallucination of her did,” Tyrion sounds like the veracity of it isn’t that important to him.

“How did Lord Tywin see her?” Sansa asks.

“Disappointed as well,” Jaime answers, “He wrote about her.”

_ Can I read it? _ Sansa wants to ask, but stops herself. _ Manners_.

“Sansa wants to read it,” Brienne practically appears behind them, “but she won’t ask.”

_ “Brienne!” _

Jaime _ and _Tyrion chuckle, so perhaps the embarrassment is worth something.

“I-I thought it might help,” Sansa stumbles, “To know what Lord Tywin saw, and about Joffrey. I spoke to Thoros this afternoon, and there’s a rite--a sending, I guess.”

The three of them look at Sansa, all with varying degrees of experience and belief.

“You can read it,” Jaime answers, “there’s no secrets left between us anyway. I warn you, though, some of it’s a bit hard to stomach.”

“Father’s logic,” Tyrion expounds, “And his brand of _ affection_.”

“You mean _ imprisonment_?”

“And an inability to reckon with the consequences of his actions,” Jaime says, angry, “That he’s confused, the whole _ fucking _time--” He stands, “I’ll fetch it.”

Jaime returns a few moments later, leather bound tome in hand. He passes it to Sansa, who goes and sits next to Brienne. She’ll want to read it, too, but won’t ask.

“There’s a bookmark, near the back,” Jaime gestures to the ribbon sticking out of the top of the pages, “Begin there.”

* * *

"I'll accompany you."

Sansa purses her lips in a way that Tyrion has come to learn means she disagrees.

"I'm not a child," Sansa replies, just as he thought she would.

"Oh, I'm aware," Tyrion lets the innuendo show through his words. "Twice now, have I been made aware."

Sansa's mastery of her expression is impressive; no blush colors her cheeks--just a slight furrow of her brows. 

"Someone needs to speak to her," Sansa continues, "Tywin saw the botchling, too. If Lady Joanna is lingering because of unfinished business, _ this _ is that business."

Tyrion can't tell if Sansa's _ if _ indicates a lack of belief. She clearly _ likes _ the occult, but the view may change now that it's staring her in the face. 

"I can do it," Tyrion doesn't mention that it won't work, probably from _ any _ source.

Sansa shakes her head, "Queen Cersei doesn't trust you, and Ser Jaime is too close."

Tyrion knows he's lost to Sansa's sheer will power, so he backs down. Sansa and Brienne spent half the night reading Father's journal, and now there's no stopping either of them.

"I'll wait in the hall," Tyrion crosses his arms.

"Are you my knight, Lord Tyrion?" Sansa's gentle teasing has much less bite than his own would; it's kinder than Tyrion deserves.

"No, but I can let her attack me instead," he replies. "You saw her the other night."

Cersei is in her room, and Tyrion walks there slowly to forestall the inevitable. Sansa keeps step with him, whether out of politeness or a similar sense of being ill-at-ease, Tyrion can't say.

"I'll yell," Sansa says calmly. 

"Be on your guard," Tyrion reminds her, "Our sweet sister is quite volatile." He retreats a couple places from the door.

"I have a knife," Sansa replies cheerfully. 

_ That _ would make a horrible story--Sansa Stark attacks the queen of Westeros.

Tyrion leans against the wall, close enough to overhear but not close enough to be seen. Sansa gives him a confident smile before knocking on the door. Tyrion hasn't seen Cersei leave her room since she hit Jaime with the candlestick.

"_ What? _" 

Tyrion knows _ that _ shriek; he winces, but Sansa doesn't. _ What is she made of? _

"Queen Cersei, it's Sansa. I wanted to talk to you."

To Tyrion's surprise, Cersei flings the door open. He moves a bit further down the hall to be certain he's clear of her gaze. 

"Ah, it's the little dove who seeks our fortune," Cersei hisses. "What do you want?"

Sansa fishes in the pocket of her dress, and Tyrion recognizes the bib she'd shown him the other night. He holds his breath.

"Ser Jaime let us read your late lord father's journal," Sansa explains, "And I spoke to Thoros about the botchling--"

"Jaime _ what?" _ Cersei's yell echoes down the hall. "When did he become such an utter _ fool? _ Where is the journal?"

"I don't know," Sansa answers plaintively, "I returned it to him."

Cersei runs her fingers through her tangled hair; she looks the least like a queen that Tyrion has ever seen. Her face is gaunt and sallow.

"And what did you _ learn?" _Cersei hisses, "Maybe I should just go scream our shame from the balconies, for all my brother is doing to keep our secrets." Her pitch rises with each word.

Sansa, to her credit, doesn't look concerned at all.

"The babe Lord Tywin killed, he haunts the yard, " Sansa says, and the blood drains from Cersei's face. Sansa holds out the bib once more. "Let us help."

Cersei grabs Sansa's wrist and pulls her through the door, slamming it behind her. It takes quite an effort, but Tyrion remains stationary. 

"Where did you get this?" Cersei is loud enough that Tyrion hears her plainly through the heavy wooden door.

"Upstairs," Sansa says, "In a dresser."

"I _ told _ Jaime this was a mistake, but no one listens to me! He's given a harlot like you the power to ruin us."

_ How does Cersei not realize we're trying to _ undo _ the ruining? _

Sansa's voice is lower, but Tyrion can still make out when she replies, "I don't intend to tell anyone."

"_Lies_. Everyone seeks to undo us; it's why Father hid our secrets, hid _ us. _"

"We want to help," Sansa continues, tone still even. "Everyone who's seen Lady Joanna describes her as sad; if we right the wrongs, there might be peace in the house."

Tyrion knows that Sansa gets more skeptical as time wears on. He's questioned his own sanity more times since arriving at Casterly Rock than in his entire life. _ Am I just seeing what will make me feel better? _

Cersei laughs, high-pitched and hysterical; Tyrion knows exactly how the sound will contort her features. "There's no peace for us, little dove. You don't know because you're a stupid child, but that doesn't excuse my brothers."

"They want to aid you, too," Sansa sounds stubborn, and Tyrion can picture that expression; it's much more pleasant.

"Ah, yes, _ that's _ who I want assistance from. My mother's murderer, and the brother who abandoned me to be married off to that pig."

"I'm sorry for what's been done to you; we can only go forward."

Cersei laughs again, "I might as well be dead for all the possibility there is of that. I'd rather stay here and let this place be my tomb. Leaving was a farce--I've _ always _ been here."

"Joffrey," Sansa says the word with such finality in her tone. 

Then, there's a _ slap _ and a _ crash_, and Tyrion is through the door. Sansa has a hand to her cheek, blue eyes wide. She bumped against a sideboard and rattled a decanter against some glasses.

"_Enough_."

"Creeping in the hallway suits you, imp," Cersei laughs the same hysterical laugh; Tyrion was correct about the expression as she does so. "Are you this whore's champion, now?"

Tyrion answers her with a laugh of his own, "I would be a poor one; Lady Sansa needs no champion."

"I'm fine," Sansa says, dropping her hand from her cheek. It's reddening already.

"Your new _ pet_," Cersei says, full of malice.

"Is _ that _ what Father would do to an impertinent guest?" Tyrion knows the feeling coming to a boil within him; he's going to say something he regrets. 

"Father did what was needed to solve the problems we created."

"The problems _ he _ created!" Yelling is utterly pointless, Cersei will escalate it until they are loud enough for the entire house to hear. He'd fought her this way as a child until Jaime pushed them apart and tried to soothe their egos.

"Regardless, Lannisters take care of themselves."

"Maybe you should lock us up, then? Since you respect Father and want to emulate him. If you want to possess Jaime, and Tommen and Myrcella so much."

Sansa winces, just as she had two nights ago. _ Perhaps she has more sense than I. _

"Shut up!"

"Father _ murdered _ your child and buried it in the yard," Tyrion outright yells, "Now it's crawling around out there. Don't you want to deal with that?"

"That's not true!"

"You saw Mother, too," Tyrion manages to get some control over his tone. At this moment, he believes _ absolutely _that what he saw was real. Cersei believes, too; he can see it in her expression. "She's sad, for us. Don't you want this to end?"

"Yes,” Cersei looks at him, and Tyrion’s unsettled by the blankness of her expression, “And there's only one way."

* * *

“Check on her,” Tyrion sounded urgent, a sense of foreboding in his tone that Jaime doesn't often hear.

So, he’d left the parlor immediately, and ran to Cersei’s room only to find the door left ajar. _ Up_, Jaime thinks--there’s only one place Cersei would go. He follows Cersei through the house, sprinting behind her like chasing a ghost, chasing the past. Following her was always his place, no matter how he tried to step out of her shadow.

Jaime stops at the door--steps over the hunks of plaster still littering the floor. 

Cersei pried the windows in the attic open, and rain is pouring in.

His sister is standing before the open windows, her back to Jaime. He remembers this sight--he’d woken in the night so many times to find her, staring out the window at the stormy sea beyond the cliffs. She’s taller, older, but her golden hair trails behind her in tangles, just the same as it had two decades ago. 

“Cersei,” Jaime comes into the room, stops before he reaches the demarcation where the rain stops soaking the floor. “Tyrion asked me to talk to you. Come back from there--”

“What does _ he _care?” 

There’s a clap of lightning that interrupts him, illuminates the room in a flash of stark white. Cersei turns, and Jaime catches the frenzied look in her eyes, notices the way her hands clutch at her white nightdress. 

“Cersei,” he repeats, steps closer to her until rain splatters against bottoms of his pant legs, “Come back from there.”

“Stay away!”

Jaime listens, terrified of what will happen if he doesn’t. Cersei is walking a thin edge, and Jaime fears in a way that makes his heart pound in his chest, that he’s lost the ability to talk her down.

_ That’s what I get for abandoning her. _

“I dreamed of Mother,” she says, “She’s angry with me.”

He doesn’t know, and isn’t even sure if it matters, if the ghost of Joanna is real. The _ effects _ of her are real, and ripping through Jaime’s remaining family members. He’ll treat her as real, in the hopes of reaching _ wherever _Cersei’s gone.

“Did she say why?”

Now, Cersei begins crying--silent tears streaming down her face, “_No _ She asked if we were happy, and I told her that you were a knight, and I was a queen, just as we wanted as children.”

A line from Tywin’s journal flashes in Jaime’s mind, “She asked Father the same question, in a dream.”

“And how did he answer?”

“...As you did,” Jaime wishes he could lie to her, but he can’t, “He didn’t understand until it was too late, but we can change--”

“It’s already too late!” Cersei screams, loud even above the rain battering against the wooden planks of the floor. “There’s nothing left; mother should hate Tyrion, but it’s _ me _she turns her wrath on.”

“I’m sure it’s not like that.” Jaime has no idea how to reason with the madness that has overtaken Cersei; even the rational things he used to repeat to her have lost their hold.

“You don’t know,” she replies, low and angry, “You never know _ anything_. Father preferred you over me, even though I’m _ better_. You got to go play with a sword after we left his cursed room.”

“I’m sorry,” Jaime repeats, “come back, and I’ll do whatever--”

Cersei’s wet, now, rain soaking into her hair and nightdress. “You _ won’t_,” she screams, “I’m not listening to you any longer; _ this _ is what Mother wants me to do.”

She’s close to the open windows now--three steps and she will be out on the roof. A sense of panicked certainty settles over Jaime. “Mother wouldn’t want this. You don’t want this; _ I _don’t want this.”

“Did we not return to this house to die?”

“What?”

“Leaving was pointless,” Cersei turns away from him again, looks out to the sea, “There’s only one way out of this room.”

“We’re _ out_,” he goes to her, steps into the rain and grips her arm.

Jaime can see the hollows under her eyes, and the way the rain drops run down her cheeks combine with her tears. There’s another flash of lightning.

“I will be soon,” she answers, a calmness overtaking her that is utterly more terrifying than her rage. 

“No,” Jaime holds her tighter, knowing what his twin is thinking as though the thought came from his own mind. “We’re not doing that.”

_ “We?” _she repeats, “There’s no ‘we’; you said so yourself.”

_ Damn her, for turning his words like that_. 

“You’re my sister.”

Cersei laughs, a broken sound, “Whatever you need to tell yourself, brother.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Do you remember when we sat on this roof?”

Jaime remembers asking her to jump, more than once, and Cersei refusing him, wanting to live and seek revenge. He used that strength from her to pull himself off the ledge and back into their cage.

“Yes,” he whispers, “and you were right, then. We lived, and you were right.”

“I wasn’t,” Cersei hisses, jerks out of his grip and puts a barefoot onto the window ledge. “You were---the only intelligent idea you’ve ever had. We should’ve ended it then.”

“No.” 

Those thoughts were far from Jaime’s mind--they had been for years, even as he lived with what their father did to them. Even if he was stuck living the same day with the same fear, he didn’t want to die. He hadn’t wanted to die since Arthur Dayne put a sword in his hand.

“Everything’s been taken from me.”

No one had given Cersei anything--even Jaime himself had turned from her.

“We can take it back; Tommen and Myrcella will know you in time.” 

Cersei has a moment of lucidity and meets his eyes; her coherence should make him feel better, but it only increases Jaime’s sense of dread. “Do you love me?”

“I do,” Jaime replies.

“Then jump with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for suicide and talking about suicide.


	15. my heart is a hollow plain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “She asked me to jump with her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this chapter written for months, but couldn't bring myself to revise it. With that attitude, I'll never finish my fic, so here it is. This was not an easy chapter to write, but it was honestly the first plot point I decided on for the narrative.
> 
> Chapter title comes from Florence + the Machine's "Breath of Life."
> 
> Please see the end of the chapter for warnings. I think every content tag this fic has applies to this chapter.

“She asked me to jump with her.”

They’re the first words Jaime utters when Brienne bursts through the side door of the house and into the garden. It was Sansa who came to fetch her, saying that Queen Cersei ran, shrieking, up to the top of the house as though she was being chased by a ghost. Some instinct told Brienne to go outside, not up, and she’s greeted with the sight of Jaime, in the rain, sitting next to his sister’s broken body.

“I--I refused,” Jaime continues, “and then she, then she—” He looks to Cersei, and back to Brienne. “I tried to stop her.”

Jaime looks up at her, lost, searching for an answer Brienne doesn’t have.

What she _ can _ do is what needs to be done. _ You’re so calm_, Sansa told her early in their partnership. It’s both true, and untrue--Brienne _ is _calm in the moment, when she needs to be, but she’ll feel the effects later. When duty is done, she’ll cry alone until there’s no tears left to shed.

“Jaime,” she says his name in a bid to get his attention, “I need you to look at me.”

He listens, stares blankly up at her. _ Shock _\--she’s seen this before among victims and witnesses, the catatonic numbness that comes from the mind’s inability to process the events. 

_ Later_, she thinks, _ I’ll do whatever he needs. _

Sansa kneels beside her, robe pooling on the cobblestones. She stares at the body for a moment, pushing her increasingly wet braid over her shoulder, before turning to Brienne, “Lord Tyrion is coming.”

Brienne gives a stiff nod. _ Sansa is calm, too. _

She's seen corpses in worse states than this, states that made her vomit into a gutter and haunt her mind as flashbulb memories. Her thought process is stuck in case mode, thinking of calling a coroner and filling out a report and death certificate. Brienne has a checklist she falls back on, and it serves her well, except she’s never been this _ close _ to the events. 

“Take him,” Sansa’s strength comes through in the tone of her voice, “Lord Tyrion and I can manage this.”

“You’re sure?”

“Brienne, we _ always _ escort the witness out.”

Jaime’s head is bowed; he hasn’t tried to speak again.

Sansa is correct, only their roles are reversed. Sansa, with her natural grace at comforting people; she'll wrap her arm around a victim, or a witness, and escort them out. She knows just what to say to soothe _ and _ get the information they need.

“Procedure.”

“Procedure,” Sansa repeats, “You can trust me.”

“I do.”

Sansa gives her a wan smile before standing, “Go.”

“Jaime.”

He looks at his name, which is better than some; Brienne’s seen victims _ and _ witnesses so far gone that words nor gesture pierce the fortress the trauma makes around their subconscious. 

“I’m taking you inside.”

“_Cersei—” _

“Lord Tyrion is coming,” Sansa repeats; her tone firm, yet kind, better than Brienne could ever manage.

Brienne puts her hands under Jaime’s arms and pulls him to standing, grateful for her strength. He’s not quite dead weight, but close. She can lift him, but he’s too tall to carry back to the house, so she puts an arm around his shoulders and prays to the Seven that his legs will keep him.

Tyrion exits the house when Brienne nears the door.

“Guard him,” he says, a hardness to his tone Brienne’s never heard, “Until morning. Bludgeon him, or tie him to the bed, if needed, but_ keep him with you_.”

Brienne remembers when they found Galladon; it had taken two days for him to wash ashore, and his body was bloated and waterlogged. It was raining that day, too, and the sheets of water masked the line between the sea and sky. She'd stared at her brother until she was soaked through, and her father pulled her away.

What Brienne needed, then, was for someone to make the decision for her, to know that she needed to be kept away.

“You’ve my word.”

* * *

He’s sitting on Brienne’s bed, and she’s holding a glass of water out to him. She dried his hair with a towel, but he’s still getting the duvet soggy with his clothes. Brienne peeled his jacket off him, but nothing else.

“Jaime.”

It’s not the first time she’s said his name; it’s not even the second, but it’s the first time Jaime thinks he might be able to respond. Her voice sounds closer this time, like Brienne’s calling him out of the place where he’s burying himself.

_ Burying_.

They’ll need to do that--to make arrangements, like with Father.

He takes the water; if he can’t speak yet, Brienne can at least know that he _ hears _ her. It’s the opposite of what Jaime wants to do--if he goes deep enough, he won’t feel the grief that’s going to overcome him once the numbness fades. 

Two sips in, and Jaime realizes the mistake of it; his stomach roils and revolts at the intrusion. Cersei falling is stuck in a loop in his mind, and he’s never going to see anything else. “_Sick_,” he manages. As if by magic, Brienne appears with an empty chamber pot and holds his hair while he retches Into it.

“You’re fine,” she repeats, softly, and maybe, _ maybe_, if she’s gentle enough the events of the evening can be undone. She’s telling him a kind-hearted lie.

“I’ll never be fine,” he answers, “I’ve never _ been _fine.”

Brienne takes the mess away and hands him the water again, “Tiny sips.”

Jaime obeys, sips the water as he tries to convince himself that he shouldn’t be with his sister, out on the cobblestones. He manages half the glass before he pushes it back into Brienne's hands.

“Cersei—” he starts, but can’t bring himself to say _ she jumped because I didn’t want to die with her. _ “The house took her,” he says instead, “I _ never _ should have brought her here.”

“You couldn’t have stopped her.”

“I never could stop her from anything,” Jaime whispers, “I should go back—” His sister, crumpled on the ground, is another sight that won’t leave him. _ Who’s to pick her up? _

Brienne takes his chin between her fingers, “I swore to keep you with me.”

A wave of petulant anger crashes over him. “Are you my keeper?”

“Tonight,” Brienne answers, “yes.”

On any other night, Jaime would take that innuendo and run with it; all it does is make him feel like he has permission to crumble before Brienne. 

“Did Tyrion ask you?”

Brienne nods.

“He always was the intelligent one,” Jaime gives a laugh that turns sob halfway through, and feels the burning behind his eyes. _ I didn’t even cry for Father_. “He thinks I’ll self-destruct.”

_ He thinks I want to die, too. _

Brienne leans down and puts her hands on his shoulders. “Will you?”

“No.” 

_ A lie_.

Jaime presses his forehead against Brienne’s stomach where she stands before him and cries silently. He felt better when he’d cried after their duel, a catharsis, and the feeling that someone would listen to him, but there’s no relief from this anguish.

Brienne runs a hand through his hair and says something mundane but comforting. The words don’t matter, only that she’s a pillar to cling to. She rests her other hand between his shoulder blades. Jaime wraps his arms around her waist and cries long enough that Brienne’s shirt is wet.

“I couldn’t stop her,” he repeats. Cersei’s absence feels like a blank spot within him. Even separate, so _ much _ of Cersei is in him, entwined like a rope. He could sever the contact, but she’s always been there.

“I’m glad you didn’t follow her.”

Jaime looks up at Brienne; her blue eyes are shining with tears of her own. _ She’d grieve me, wouldn’t she? Had Cersei been made to think no one cared? _ Cersei certainly made _ him _ think no one would care about him. Jaime will grieve her; Tommen and Myrcella will, too. Even Tyrion will mourn their sister in his own way.

“I care about you,” Brienne scrunches her brow and purses her lips. “And I won’t let you harm yourself.”

“Why couldn’t I do that for her?” 

“I don’t know,” Brienne kneels so they’re closer to eye level, “but I know you tried.”

“Not hard enough,” Jaime’s voice is rough with tears.

Brienne cups his face in her hands and wipes the wetness lingering on his cheeks. “Do you trust me?”

Jaime finds the feeling implicit. “Isn’t that part of our truce?”

Brienne nods, “This isn’t your fault.”

“I left her, though.”

“To protect yourself.”

“Cersei couldn’t hurt me.”

A lie--Brienne knows it. She touches near his hairline where Cersei hit him with candlestick; it’s scabbed over, a reminder of her, and when it’s gone, there will be nothing left. “Not all wounds are physical.” 

Brienne’s gentle hands generate a _ feeling_, a spark amidst the numbness he’s blanketed in. So, Jaime kisses her, wondering if the contact can chase away the ghosts. Brienne being shorter than him is odd; she rises to sit on the bed beside him. She's all maidenly blushing when she pulls away, breathing hard like when he knocked her down in the yard.

Jaime doesn't want to join Cersei, but some intrinsic part has been ripped from him, and the rest is going to fade away without an anchor. He felt _ alive _ facing Brienne with a blade--Jaime could feel the cadence of his heartbeat, his blood pounding in his veins. 

It was good and _ real_.

"Brienne, I _ need--_"

For her to pour an ounce of her fortitude into him, to bind him to the mortal plane. Brienne with her sword and her strength and her honor. Only he can't utter any of that, and doesn't know if she'll understand she's the palisade between him and an abyss. He's crawled back from many, many things, but he's at his limit.

Brienne would tell him not to be too proud to ask.

"Anything." 

_ Of course she understands. _

The next kiss is harsher, more desperate. Brienne lets him draw her close until their legs are touching. She keeps her hands on his cheeks, keeps him still; Jaime feels certain he won't vanish if she keeps doing it. 

When Jaime moves his mouth away from hers, he can't summon the gentleness he always intended to touch her with. He attacks the buttons on her shirt where they start high on her neck and surely dislodges one in his haste. 

Brienne gasps as he presses his lips where he can feel her pulse. She rewards him with a breathy sigh when he moves southward and sinks his teeth into an expanse of pale, freckled skin at her collarbone. Her reactions light a spark within him. Jaime can only chase the feeling, wondering how far it can take him, what it can drown out.

Jaime tugs the blouse free from where it’s tucked into Brienne’s trousers, pushes the garment off her shoulders until it tangles around her elbows. She’s wearing a camisole underneath--plain white and utilitarian. 

“So practical." A tease to deflect away from the ache of his heart. 

Brienne scowls as she finishes pulling her arms out of the sleeves and hugs herself. “It serves its purpose.”

Sensible Brienne, who pulled him from the yard, who’s keeping him here, keeping him together. 

_ Fuck_. Jaime wants her, wants her to worry about him, to touch him until nothing else exists. Nothing about this premise is right, but it doesn’t matter when Brienne lays her hand over his heart, a brief sojourn before she begins undoing buttons. Her hands are steady, and she’s slow, _ too _ slow. His heart hammers in his chest, but the tension the wait creates is _ good. _

The tension is a distraction.

Brienne might not take favorably to his intercession. If he pushes her, Jaime is confident she’ll push back. He kisses Brienne when his vest is unbuttoned, and she’s halfway done with his shirt. It disrupts her steady pacing, a victory, but Brienne manages to finish the job.

Jaime’s used to desperation--he wanted Cersei like this, once upon a time. The same fire is there now as he seeks to raze the events of the night from his memory. Every article of clothing is a barrier between Jaime and what he wants; he wraps an arm around Brienne’s waist, touches her through the thin fabric. She tenses, then relaxes, but doesn’t break the contact.

There’s a lot of tugging and no small amount of awkward stumbling as Brienne hastily tries to free Jaime from his shirt. He does the same with her camisole, pulls it over her head with enough force that it rips at the seams. The thread snapping is oddly loud in the stillness of the room.

“Sansa can fix it,” Brienne says, lips close to his.

Jaime doesn’t care if the offending cloth gets tossed in the fireplace; he’d burn her entire wardrobe to get to her and let Sansa try and sew the ashes back together. Brienne responds when he presses his hands and his mouth to the skin he’s uncovering. Every movement gets her closer. When Brienne shyly mirrors his actions, it grounds him in a way he’s certain nothing else could.

He knows he’s still breathing when she lays her hand between his shoulder blades, and he knows blood thrums through his veins when she straddles him at the edge of the bed because it drains from the rest of his body straight to his cock.

A dead man wouldn’t feel this _ ache_, and neither would a ghost.

Brienne’s strong, tangible, and her hips fit against his perfectly. She doesn’t wince when he grips too tightly, but there’s nothing rough about her, either. Brienne meets Jaime’s frenzied aggressiveness measure for measure, tightens her thighs around his legs. Her breath hitches when he touches her breast, when he drags his teeth over her bottom lip.

She’ll have to move if they want to continue, but for a moment she’s pinning him to the bed, and to life, and Jaime will thank her, later, do whatever she asks in repayment. Brienne holds him, gives Jaime a chance to admire her warmth. He doesn’t object when she rocks forward, liking the spike of pleasure at the pressure and the friction. 

If Brienne wants him on his back, he’ll oblige.

Jaime gets a bit lost in the way she’s looking at him. It’s heady, and the blue of her eyes drowns out the outside world and narrows his universe down to the concerned openness in her expression. 

Brienne takes one of her hands from where it’s resting beside his head and raises herself up until there’s a fraction of distance between them. It takes a heartbeat, but Jaime realizes Brienne is trying to free herself from the rest of her clothes. 

_ Fuck_. He never considered the power of her taking the initiative; it’s almost worth the price of her not bearing down on him anymore. In all his fantasies, he lavished Brienne with attention, and never got to what _ he _ wanted from her.

“_Gods_, I thought you’d be demure,” Jaime feels like the words are wrung out of him. “Let me help.”

“Just because I've never doesn't mean--” she bites back. "Men talk _ all _ the time, crudely, but it's informative."

"Lesson learned." 

The only sensible action is to help Brienne; the fastest course to getting her with him, around him. Their collective efforts free her from her trousers, haphazardly landing on the edge of the bed. Brienne holds her breath as Jaime takes her in wearing only her smallclothes. _ Nervous_. _ Of course she would be. _

Jaime isn't sure he knows how to be tender, but he meant to _ try_. 

Brienne hovers over him, a small crease between her brows. Jaime forgets everything but the fact that Brienne fills his vision and how fucking desparately he wants her.

"Brienne." Her name is an entire conversation--that she's singular, and glorious, and that if she's willing, Jaime wants her to unmake him in the same way she's unmasked him. 

She answers with a tiny nod. Jaime sighs, a combination of relief and desire, when Brienne reaches for the rest of his clothes. Some frenzy must build within her, too; she doesn't stop at his trousers, and whether it's her need, or her answer to his mental state, within seconds he's bare to the air of the room.

Jaime touches her hip to bring Brienne back down to him. Her smallclothes are unadorned, as utilitarian as the rest of her clothes, but they create delicious friction when Jaime cants his hips upward to meet hers. The noise she makes is an almost girlish gasp.

She rocks against him, and Jaime scrabbles for contact, grips her hips again. He can't think of wanting to vanish when Brienne leans down and kisses him. Jaime has never known care before her touch. He's been possessed, but never desired. Brienne wants _ him, _his labored breathing and stuttering heartbeat, from the way she slides against him, slick beyond the friction of the cloth barrier.

Jaime could _ ask_, wants to hear Brienne admit her desire aloud. She would blush, and it would be lovely. He's too afraid of what her answer could do to him, so he slides his hand up her side, past the slight dip of her waist up to her breast. There's femininity, buried and untouched, and being the first to uncover it begets a wave of primal possessiveness.

To be the first to know her, to let her claim him in return.

She freezes when Jaim skirts his fingertips along where fabric borders skin between her thighs. Warmth radiates from her that Jaime wants to sink into. When he does so with his fingertips, Brienne drops her head to his shoulder and pants softly into his ear. 

The tight heat of her around his fingers isn't enough; he quickens his pace. Brienne presses against him, matches his rhythm. 

"Want you," he gasps; Jaime isn't above begging if Brienne wills it of him. 

Brienne nods, helps when Jaime tugs the last scrap of fabric down over her hips. Then, Jaime's sinking his fingertips into the flesh of her thighs, guiding him to her, to the end of the contact he’s chasing. She keeps her forehead against his collarbone while Jaime holds her still and doesn't push. There's a moment where things are frozen between them, until Brienne lets him enter her.

The desperate feeling crests within Jaime again, and he wants to thrust with abandon. He remains still; however overwhelmed he feels, he won’t hurt Brienne. She shifts until Jaime assumes she’s comfortable before pushing herself up, hands on his shoulders, and making eye contact.

“It’s not so bad.”

Jaime nods. Normally, he’d tease her, but he can’t summon an ounce of wit in this situation. Laughter seems so far away that Jaime feels like he’s never made the sound. Brienne moves, an experimental tilt forward, and it would’ve stolen any witty retorts from his lips, regardless of the circumstance. 

“_Oh_,” she says. Someday soon, Jaime hopes he can find warmth in the memory of this moment--Brienne looking down at him, wide-eyed, hair loose around her face and lips parted. “G-go on, then.”

Not in a position to refuse, Jaime moves, pushes upward into her with all the fervor he’d been holding back. Brienne’s second _ oh _ is more emphatic as they stumble together in finding a rhythm. She grips his shoulders tight enough that Jaime imagines finger-shaped bruises on his skin tomorrow. He wouldn't mind proof of Brienne on him, a better wound than many he’s suffered. A testament that he made it through the night, if only by her grace.

Jaime loses track of his beginning and his ending when they finally find a pace that matches. It’s not the slow thoroughness Jaime thinks she deserves, but there’s a fierceness to Brienne when she leans down to kiss him again and tightens her legs around him. His grip on Brienne’s hips is no less intense.

There’s _ life _ in the act between them, and nothing compares to fighting and fucking when it comes to affirming that. Brienne can help him prove his mortality in both instances. 

Brienne’s quiet, and Jaime follows suit. He knows he says her name, barely a whisper, into her ear. His climax hits him like trying to outrun high tide at the beach; as a child, Jaime always waited until the last second and ended up with wet shoes.

He makes it, this time, and sees Brienne shift from confused to comprehending. For a blissful moment he forgets how fucked up everything is. Brienne watches as he floats back to the ground, and Jaime thinks he could sleep for an entire year.

Brienne’s movement off the bed prompts Jaime to open his eyes. 

“Don’t go,” he blurts, wishing he kept the thought in his head. He won’t beg Brienne to stay with him, and he knows he’s wretched company.

“The mess,” she replies, returning with the wash basin and a cloth.

“Oh,” Jaime replies foolishly. 

Jaime finds the gesture so profoundly touching that the burning feeling behind his eyes returns. Brienne is going to think he’s gone mad if he starts tearing up over something so ridiculous.

She drapes the cloth over the basin’s edge then tries to cover herself with her arms in a fit of modesty. “Was I that ill-suited?”

“What?”

“I’m not...right,” she dodges saying what she means, “And you look upset but different from before—”

_ A different upset than my family falling apart; a different upset than Cersei joining father. _

“_Fuck_,” Jaime blurts, sits up and scrubs a hand over his face; it comes away damp. “Everyone assumes the worst.” The consequences of letting himself be maligned for so many years.

“I’m sorry.”

Jaime’s lonely and broken, and Brienne’s care is overwhelming. He gave himself to her, and Brienne gave in return, and it’s _ wonderful_. He’s grieving, and there’s so little left tying him together. The swinging pendulum of his feelings is too much.

“No,” he shakes his head, _ “thank you_._” _

Brienne’s still hugging her arms around herself, for all the good it does. She looks like she’s going to argue, but after a moment of silence she replies, “I’m glad I was here for you.”

More tears, but it’s not the sobbing from before, so Jaime can manage, “Tomorrow won’t be better, but I’d like to sleep, I think.”

_ Tomorrow _ hurts already--he’ll have to tell Tommen and Myrcella, and contact people, and make arrangements. _ Gods. _

Brienne touches his cheek; she must notice the frantic change in his expression. “Not tonight,” she’s stern, “One thing at a time. I’ll go and let you sleep.”

“Don’t go,” he repeats, like a child with a fear of the ghosts under the bed. _ I am like that, aren’t I? _ Afraid of where his thoughts will go in the silence, afraid of the house exacting its price on him in the dark of night, afraid of seeing, and _ not _ seeing, his mother.

It’s been a long, long time since Jaime shared a bed with anyone like this. Faint memories of Cersei and him crawling into bed with their mother, or stumbling through a bedtime story with Tyrion and waking up with him asleep between them. They’d guarded one another against what sought to haunt them. _ When did we stop? _

Brienne pulls the blankets down and puts out the lamp, plunging the room into inky darkness. Desire wrung out of him for the day, all Jaime cares about is the warm comfort of Brienne wrapping an arm around him, anchoring him in the center of the bed. 

He’ll wake in the morning, if Brienne is with him.

* * *

Brienne spent half the night watching Jaime sleep, an arm wrapped around him like he was going to vanish into the ether without her grip. 

He sleeps, though, which is a blessing. Brienne doesn't mind that she only dozes; keeping vigil for Jaime is something she wants to do, and one night of less-than-ideal sleep won't do lasting damage.

Watching Jaime gives her a lot of time to _ think_. 

Beyond girlhood daydreams of romance, Brienne didn't think too often about sex. Once she realized that no one would want someone such as her, she resigned herself to a wedding night consummation filled with duty. She wouldn't marry someone cruel, not even for the need of an heir, but she knew not to expect passion.

Jaime wasn't in a position to do what they'd done, but Brienne doesn't regret it. No matter what comes from it, Jaime looked at her in a way she thought no one would, and he stayed with her after. He needed her, _ asked _ for her.

_ Tomorrow. _ Brienne can’t protect Jaime from that, but she can ensure he’s rested, and support him where she can. 

At dawn, Brienne untangles herself from Jaime, dresses in fresh clothes, and goes into the hall to pace. She leans against the wall and tries to order her thoughts.

The higher the sun rises in the sky, the sooner duty will creep upon them. Brienne knows the procedure. Had Sansa or Tyrion sent a telegram to Lannisport? The local authorities and a coroner would be needed. What had they done with Cersei's body? The only person who could move the queen would be Clegane.

They’ll need to send word to King’s Landing, too

“Lady Brienne.”

She looks up to find Tyrion walking down the hall.

“Lord Tyrion,” Brienne pushes herself off the wall. She doesn’t know what else to say--there seems little point in meaningless pleasantries given the circumstances.

“My brother,” Tyrion doesn’t need to elaborate.

“Asleep.”

“Thank you,” Tyrion nods. “Let's let him as long as possible.”

Brienne nods.

“Sansa sent a telegram to Lannisport, but it's not a short distance, so it will be most of the day before anyone arrives.” Tyrion scrubs his hand over his face; Brienne would bet no sleep had come to him, either. “I'd keep Jaime from the minutiae of it, if possible.”

Brienne nods again, “He's...he can't handle it."

“That’s never stopped him before,” Tyrion glances at the door that Jaime sleeps behind, “He’s always seen Cersei has his responsibility, even _ after _\---and this will be the last of that.”

Brienne still doesn’t know how to express comfort; even with Jaime, she’d only known to hold him, not what words to say. She has no idea what would comfort Tyrion.

“I’ll keep him in bed,” she replies, realizing after that her phrasing might indicate some innuendo. Maybe Tyrion won’t---

He laughs, but there’s a hysterical edge to it that reminds her of when Jaime laughed in the garden, right before he cried. _ Brothers. _

“There are worse activities for coping in this house,” Tyrion looks up at her, and Brienne wonders what he’s hiding behind his mask. "I might go take a page from his book."

Brienne doesn't know how to respond to that, so she ignores it, “I--If you and Sansa need assistance, let me know.”

“You and Sansa have done more than you know. Now, go keep my last family member from joining the rest of them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tagging for suicide and suicide ideation.


	16. don't make a shadow of yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime looks peaceful, she thinks, wishing she could make the waking world conform to that. The feeling will vanish the moment Jaime opens his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I'm back with another chapter of everyone's favorite angst train. I was _so_ worried that everyone would run screaming after the last chapter, but there were so many lovely reviews. Thank you all for your patience as I write this nightmare of a fic!
> 
> Title is, again, a line from Florence + the Machine's "Third Eye."

Brienne returns to her room and sits near the headboard of the bed, wrapping her arms around her bent legs. A yawn escapes her, and she rests her cheek against her knees. _ Jaime looks peaceful_, she thinks, wishing she could make the waking world conform to that. The feeling will vanish the moment Jaime opens his eyes.

He’s still naked under the blanket, a fact Brienne feels suddenly and acutely aware of. She could drag the bed linens off of him and _ see _ by the morning light coming through the window. Then, she feels a sense of guilt because Jaime is grieving, and it was fine to help him, but not to covet him for herself.

She shifts on the bed, a bit sore--nothing compared to that time she was stabbed, or even when she used to train as a girl. Nothing like Septa Roelle warned about.

Jaime wakes and blinks slowly as he adjusts to the light streaming through the window. He looks content, on the fine edge between sleep and wakefulness. Brienne sees the moment Jaime realizes--his expression changes, like something crashing through glass, sending shrapnel in all directions.

Mostly, he looks like he’s going to be sick.

Brienne grabs the chamberpot, emptied after her conversation with Tyrion, and places it within Jaime’s reach. She gathers his hair back and rests her other hand between his shoulder blades. She’d been sick a few months before, and remembers Sansa rubbing her back, how comforting it had been to not be alone when at her most wretched. There’s no food left in Jaime’s stomach, but he heaves into the chamberpot regardless. 

_ “Ugh_,” Jaime wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand.

She takes the chamberpot away and returns with another glass of water; Jaime seems to have learned his lesson from the night prior and sips at it gingerly. Brienne isn’t sure what to say, so she sits beside him and keeps her hand on his back. The blanket is askew from him sitting up, and Jaime seems startled to realize he’s not wearing any clothes. 

Brienne just tries not to stare.

Jaime looks at her and pales, “...We fucked.”

She can’t reason out the implication in Jaime’s tone, so Brienne deflects, “I know; I was there.”

The dryness in her tone makes Jaime laugh, but much like Tyrion’s, the sound gives way to one of deep anguish. Jaime shuts his eyes; Brienne doesn’t move her hand.

“I understand,” Brienne continues, but each word feels like a knife slipped between her ribs. She looks away from Jaime--this is no time for her to interject her feelings into the conversation. 

_ Don’t ask him for anything_.

“I’m sorry,” Jaime’s voice is just above a whisper, “that wasn’t how I wanted that to happen.”

Brienne should just nod, not inquire, but she can’t stop herself, “What...did you want?”

“To not begin and end with me crying,” Jaime shakes his head, “not to just to drown my grief for a few moments of respite.”

“Jaime—”

“I’m a romantic fool,” he laughs bitterly, “I wanted to give you something I’ve never had.”

“I don’t feel used,” Brienne pushes out the words in a rush. “Y-you needed me; I offered.”

“How could you refuse?”

“Easily,” Brienne answers, “I’m sorry about the circumstances because you’re hurting but not that it happened.”

“I _ know _what being used feels like, and to inflict on you—”

Kissing Jaime shuts him up more effectively than anything else. “There’s enough here without adding to the ghosts. _ Trust _me.”

“I trust you,” Jaime pauses then gives her a smile that makes Brienne feel like she’s melting, “Next time, you’ll have my utmost attention.”

_ Next time_. Brienne flushes at the thought and feels utterly inappropriate for thinking about desire at a time like this.

“I--I’d like that.”

Jaime’s smile is gone as quick as it appeared, “I feel like half of me is missing. I’ve grieved Cersei, what she could have been, for a long time, but there was _ hope.” _

Brienne moves closer on the bed and wraps an arm around Jaime’s shoulders; the warmth of his skin draws her in. “The loss of hope cuts the deepest.”

Jaime looks down at his hands and nods, “I wanted her to find peace, but this house takes _ everything_.”

Brienne’s grip tightens, and she remembers her promise to Tyrion.

_ Not everything_. 

* * *

Tyrion wants a drink, but what he really needs is _ sleep_; a combination of the two might be the most preferable. Grief will hit him later, but for now, Tyrion lets Sansa shoo him into his room.

"There's nothing to be done until those summoned from Lannisport arrive," she says, "And you'll need to be awake for that."

It warms him that Sansa cares enough to see that he rests, just as it's kind that she stayed awake until dawn helping him sort through things.

"More wisdom from you," Tyion tells her.

"It's just being sensible," Sansa replies, "Clegane will fetch us when people arrive."

They'd laid Cersei's body out in the unused front parlor--the same place where Tywin rested when they arrived at Casterly Rock.

_ Half of my surviving family, lost in a month. _ He hated their father, and while Cersei hated him, Tyrion couldn't ever bring himself to feel the same for her. He didn't _ like _ her, but he did love her.

That's the part of him that hurts. He wonders if Jaime feels it--the ache, like a lost opportunity. What could their sister have been, if nurtured differently? Or at all?

Maybe it's a question for all three of them.

"I'll sleep," he tells Sansa, "Thank you, for all you've done."

Sansa bends down and kisses him, sweet and soft, like it's a commonplace thing to do.

"Good."

When Tyrion climbs into bed, he wonders if Sansa would stay if he asked. If she'd be that presence he longs for and never found at home, or in the bottom of a bottle, or in a night spent with a whore whose name he didn’t know. It feels like she could be.

Something Jaime and he have in common--the seeking of a caring gaze; both of them sought it in empty places.

_ How would we know where to look? _

He sleeps, not the most restful of his life, but when he wakes closer to midday, Tyrion is confident he can manage. And now he can have that drink--perhaps combined with some breakfast.

Shae is in the dining room with the children eating lunch when Tyrion enters. She stands from the table and goes to him.

"I'm _ so _ sorry," she whispers, low enough that Tommen and Myrcella can't hear. "Clegane told us this morning."

Sympathy is something Tyrion usually finds trite, so he's surprised at how earnest he is when he responds "Thank you."

He finds that he feels, a bit less, that Shae betrayed him. She only did something she felt was necessary.

"I didn't tell them," she continues, "but we won't be able to keep it from them for long. I thought you or Lord Jaime might want to be the ones to say it."

"We can only keep it from them until the end of the day," Tyrion agrees, "People are coming from Lannisport."

"Ah," Shae nods, "they _ will _ be fascinated with more guests."

"I'll tell them," Tyrion decides, "Jaime is in no state for it. How do you think they'll take it?"

She looks uncertain, "She was their mother, but they don't know her. They didn't cry when Lord Tywin died, but this is different."

"You're more their mother than Cersei was; not that it's any fault of her own."

What sort of mother would Cersei have been, though, if things had been different? His sister wasn't nurturing--even when they were children, it was Jaime who soothed him, not Cersei.

Shae looks taken aback, and it pulls Tyrion from his thoughts, "T-that's not--I'm just a governess."

"Seven Hells," Tyrion finds Shae's downplaying of her contributions exceptionally frustrating, "You raised them."

"I love them," she answers, softly, after a moment.

"_Good. _They need that." Tyrion looks over to the children; Tommen is eating quietly, and Myrcella is fussing over him. "I'll...tell them. Can you find me some breakfast?"

It's not her job, but today of all days, Tyrion could use a hand. 

"Of course," she says.

"Something bland," Tyrion adds. This was _ not _ the morning for an epicurean adventure.

When Shae exits, Tyrion makes his way over to Tommen and Myrcella. They look up in unison, following him with matching expressions as he approaches. 

"Good morning," Tyrion opens with the pointless pleasantry, as though it will soften the blow.

"Good morning, Uncle Tyrion," they reply in chorus.

_ That never gets less unsettling. _Not even Jaime and Cersei spoke in unison, and Tyrion spent five years in their near-constant company.

"Last night," Tyrion starts, realizing his mouth got ahead of his brain; he’s never delivered news like this. “Um--”

"Mother jumped from the roof last night," Myrcella finishes; the evenness of her tone makes a shiver go down Tyrion's spine. She’s looking at him, utterly calm.

_ How the fuck does she know that? _More important, how is she looking at him like she just said something utterly banal?

"Grandmother told us," Tommen explains as though Tyrion’s question was spoken aloud, "She was even sadder than usual." He looks as though tears are about to fall down his cheeks. Myrcella wraps an arm around him. 

“Grandmother didn't want that to happen," Myrcella adds. 

"She wanted the three of you to get along," tears do fall down Tommen’s cheeks, now. “Like Myrcella and I do.”

Tyrion feels like his heart is going to claw its way out of his throat; he takes a deep, shuddering breath to steady himself. Then, he wraps an arm around each of them. 

“I think we all wanted that.”

* * *

Jaime dozes, again, and is alone when he wakes. His body is screaming at him to get up--he has to piss, he’s thirsty, and the feeling gnawing at his stomach that feels like dread _ might _ be hunger. He ignores the feelings as long as he’s able, shutting his eyes and pulling the blanket over his head.

Outside that door is expectation, and when the tasks he’ll need to tackle appear in his mind, Jaime panics. A new day dawned on a world where Cersei was dead, and he lives on. 

_ I can’t do this. I can’t bury her. _

He never thought himself a coward, but Jaime can’t bring himself to sit up and plant his feet on the floor. He’d managed the first half when Brienne was still in the room, but even that seems too much for him now. Brienne would get up, get dressed, and do what needed to be done. 

Pathetically, he wishes she’d return; things seem more feasible in her presence; he feels terribly alone, now. Brienne had given him so much, already.

It’s the thought of her, and Tyrion, and Tommen and Myrcella, out there in the house, reckoning with events of the night prior, that gets him out of bed. He has a vague memory of the night before, of Sansa telling Brienne she would see to what needed to be done, of Tyrion telling Brienne to keep him with her.

_ They’re protecting me_. 

Brienne did it by holding him, by sheltering him when he needed it. Jaime still needs it, and thinks that it will be a long, long time before he doesn’t. He splashes water on his face, drinks an entire glass from the pitcher, and finds a bundle of fresh clothes on the chair. Brienne must have left those there, too, knowing that he wouldn’t want to put back on the clothes he was wearing when--

If Jaime goes there, he’ll crawl back into bed, so he thinks about Brienne’s kindness instead.

The day is sunny, which is either fitting or an utter mockery. Jaime decides to look for Tyrion first, and finds him in Tywin’s study. They stare at one another for a long moment; his brother clearly can’t think of anything appropriate to say, either.

“Fuck,” Tyrion says eventually.

Jaime just nods.

“Are you--” Tyrion starts, and Jaime guesses the myriad ways his brother is trying to finish that sentence. He’s usually not one for hesitation or delicate phrasing. “...alright?”

“No,” Jaime replies, “are you?”

_ “Fuck _ no,” Tyrion shakes his head, “but you’re--”

“I don’t want to die,” Jaime’s had enough of mincing words. “You told Brienne to keep me with her.”

“I was afraid you’d jump, too,” Tyrion whispers.

Jaime remembers Tyrion toddling across the floor of the attic, remembers holding out his arms to catch him when he ran too fast and stumbled. Cersei, filled with rage, resented Tyrion by then, but Tyrion kept Jaime looking forward. When he despaired, looked through the windows at the Sunset Sea and thought it’d be easier to feel _ nothing_, his brother was the reason he looked back.

“She told me we should’ve jumped...back then. That nothing after was worth it,” Jaime doesn’t think he’s ever told Tyrion this. 

“Do you believe that?”

“No. Even then, when it seemed like it would be easier, I thought you, at least, needed me.”

“Cersei would’ve let me starve,” Tyrion replies, “Or tossed me from the roof herself.”

“I’m sorry,” Jaime blurts, “I tried, Tyrion, _ so _ hard--”

His brother hops down from the desk and crosses the rug-covered floor. They seem to be of one mind because Jaime can only think to embrace his remaining sibling.

“It’s not your fault,” Tyrion says into his ear, “I know you think it is, and that I won’t be able to convince you.”

“I don’t know,” Jaime answers honestly, “but I couldn’t honor her last request.”

“To die with her?”

Jaime can’t answer that with words, so he just nods.

Tyrion pushes Jaime back and looks him in the eye. “Promise me you won’t.”

“I won’t.”

Jaime isn’t sure there’s a tear left in him, but Tyrion’s eyes look a bit misty. He puts his hands on Jaime’s shoulders for a long moment, then clears his throat and releases him. The moment has passed, and Tyrion transitions back to safer territory.

“Sansa sent a telegram, so everything’s taken care of. I can hear you saying ‘but this is my responsibility’, and I don’t want to hear it.”

Admonished, Jaime starts, “Cersei--”

“--Is my sister, too,” Tyrion’s tone is clipped. “So it’s just as much my responsibility.”

There’s a million arguments Jaime could make, but the fact is that he can’t handle what needs done without help. He’s not sure he can handle _ any _of it. So, instead of shouldering it all alone, he replies, “Thank you.”

“I told Tommen and Myrcella, “ Tyrion pauses, “but they claimed to have already known.”

The information _ should _ shock Jaime, but given everything, he finds himself feeling quite nonplussed. “Mother told them?”

“So they say. I don’t know how they could’ve learned of it otherwise.”

“How do they seem?”

“Sad, but more so because Mother seemed upset to them. They don’t know Cersei well enough to grieve her.”

The chance for Cersei to bond with them was lost, now. Jaime doesn’t want to squander his. 

“Should I speak to them?”

“You’re their father.”

* * *

Both the constable and the coroner who arrive from Lannisport look at Sansa like she should be playing with dolls in a nursery rather than speaking with them. 

“Is Lord Lannister here?” the constable asks. He could be requesting Jaime _ or _ Tyrion; Sansa isn’t going to take him to either of them.

“He is,” Sansa replies, “but you can talk to me.” She’s used to this treatment, but it doesn’t make her any less angry. Doubly so, this time, because the men look at her like she’s not worth speaking to, and the fact that they don’t care a whit for the situation they’d entered into.

_ People like this wonder why they don’t get anywhere. _

“We’d prefer to speak with the lord of the house.”

It takes all Sansa has not to raise her voice. Instead, she smiles and says, “It’s a shame that we don’t always get what we prefer.”

The constable opens his mouth and then shuts again, “Lead the way, then, my lady.”

Her competence won’t make their impression of her any more favorable, but it will ensure the job is done correctly, which will benefit everyone. Eventually, Jaime will have to speak with someone, and the more organized this part is, the smoother the questioning will go. Sansa would prefer to do it herself, but they’re outside of her jurisdiction, so it seems unlikely.

After, Sansa collapses into a chair in the sitting room and rests her head, using her folded arms as a pillow. The lack of sleep from the night prior catches up with her, and she shuts her eyes. _ I talked with Queen Cersei in this room, and now… _

The coroner drafted the death certificate; Sansa watched over his shoulder and supplied what details she could. She hadn’t known the queen; their one conversation was unsettling in many ways. 

_ They’re all victims_. Either of Tywin Lannister or of Cersei herself. The queen wasn’t much better than Tywin, at the end. Sansa thinks of her bursting in Tyrion’s room, of hitting Jaime with the candlestick. It was all a cycle.

_ What could we have done differently? _

A solution is beyond her. 

She must doze because the next thing Sansa’s aware of is a hand on her shoulder, shaking her awake. The sunlight in the room has changed.

“Sansa.” It’s Brienne’s voice, and Sansa turns to look at her friend.

“Brienne,” Sansa replies, sitting up and stretching. “_Gods_, it’s--”

“Nearly supper,” Brienne supplies, “The people from Lannisport are going to return to town in the morning.”

“Did someone…?”

Brienne nods, “Shae found them rooms.”

Sansa realizes Brienne’s carrying a plate, “Is that for me?”

Brienne places it on the table, then sits down across from Sansa. “A sandwich. I didn’t figure you’d eaten.”

Her stomach answers for her. Had she eaten anything all day? Sansa couldn't recall. She takes a bite of sandwich but doesn’t really taste it. “Ser Jaime and Lord Tyrion--”

“Together, since the early afternoon,” Brienne answers, taking the other sandwich off the plate and eating it. “I think they’re in Tywin’s study.”

Sansa nods, “How is…?”

“He slept, which is more than can be said for the rest of us.”

Brienne yawns, and Sansa follows suit. They’re silent for a moment while they eat. There’s a thought rising in her, one that creates a pit of dread in her stomach.

“Brienne,” she speaks once the last bit of sandwich is gone, “Do you think I...made things worse?”

“How so?”

“I was nosy,” Sansa blurts, “I went upstairs without permission. I fancied myself as clever, bantering with Lord Tyrion. He told me this wasn’t a story, and I _ thought _ I knew what that meant, but--”

“Sansa,” Brienne stops her, taking her hand and squeezing it, “I don’t think that’s how they see it.” Sansa can feel the tension in her grip, but no matter how awkward Brienne feels, Sansa is glad for the comfort. 

“But what if it’s us knowing that caused this?”

Brienne shakes her head, “It’s deeper than that, I think. The queen was unwell for a long time. Jaime’s told me...some of it.”

She thinks of Tyrion, giving her the whole story by the lamplight in his chambers, of Tommen, and Myrcella, and even Joffrey. She thinks of her conversation with Jaime a few mornings prior, telling him that the best justice was to live past what had happened.

“The queen wasn’t kind,” Sansa whispers, “and she was nearly as cruel as Lord Tywin, but…”

“...She was a victim, too.”

They both fall silent for a long moment. Sansa watches the fading sunlight creep across the rug. Queen Cersei behaved the way she’d been treated. Cruelty and neglect begets more of the same. 

“Lord Tyrion thanked me,” Sansa says, eventually, “for my assistance.” The timing isn’t appropriate, but his gratitude warms her. She’d been helpful to someone she cared about, to someone who needed it.

Brienne smiles, and Sansa thinks she might have the faintest coloring on her cheeks. “Jaime did, too.”

That, Sansa thinks, is answer enough to her question of whether they’d done any good by coming to Casterly Rock.

* * *

_ You’re their father_.

Jaime hadn’t told them that, not outright. He tries to whisper it to himself when he leaves his father’s study and goes to locate Tommen and Myrcella, but even that gets caught in his throat. He’s _ allowed _ to tell them, and allowed to have it mean something, but that meaning is in the world he woke up into today. A world where he’s alive and Cersei isn’t. A world where Cersei is laid out in the parlor, pale in death, just as Tywin had been a fortnight prior.

Cersei lost her chance to be _ anything _ to them, would’ve rather them not exist than try and build _ something._ Jaime was used to nothing, and an imperfect something was infinitely better.

The twins peer around the doorframe of their bedroom as Jaime approaches, one golden-haired head atop the other.

“Grandmother told us you were coming,” Myrcella says before Jaime can get a single word out. Neither child looks a bit concerned over their claim that a ghost told them of Jaime’s visit.

_ That’s what the house has done to them. _

Apparently, that’s what the house does to everyone except him. 

“Did she,” Jaime replies, not quite a question because he isn’t sure his fragile mind can handle the elaboration.

They appear fully in the doorway, holding hands and watching him. The image _ hurts_, painful in a way that Jaime can’t articulate. They remind him of what was, what _ is_, and, now, what can’t be. There’s hope in them, too, something Jaime didn’t think he’d feel again so soon after Cersei--

He stops, unable to finish the thought.

Jaime kneels before them and waits, unsure of what to say.

“Uncle Tyrion told us,” Tommen says, “but we already knew.”

“We’re sorry,” Myrcella says.

“Cersei was your mother,” Jaime replies. Even though the two of them already _ know_, he wants to say it, to let the secret out, even if it’s too late. “She loved you, even if she never knew how to show it.”

“I would’ve…” Tommen starts; he looks at Myrcella, who nods as if urging him on. “I wanted to know her. _ We _ wanted to.”

“She wanted that, too.” Jaime doesn’t know how to explain _ anything_, especially not to children. “I know it might not seem like it, but she longed for the two of you.”

“But she was never here,” Tommen’s eyes look watery, and Jaime does his damndest not to follow suit.

“We wanted to be,” he replies, realizes immediately that he’s given too much away, then decides it doesn’t matter. King’s Landing will teem with rumors over their arrival; it’s better for them to learn that truth from him than from someone else.

Still, like when he’d tried to say the words to himself on the walk here, Jaime’s throat closes up.

Myrcella disrupts Jaime’s panicking; she takes his hand and smiles knowingly, “I figured it out already.”

_ “What _ did you figure out?” Tommen interjects.

She looks at him and rolls her eyes, “If Queen Cersei was our mother, then Ser Jaime must be our father.”

Tommen’s expression mirrors how shocked Jaime feels. _ How did she know? _

“Did Grandmother tell you that?” Tommen shouts, letting go of Myrcella’s hand and crossing his arms. “And you didn’t tell me?”

_ “No,” _ Myrcella sounds irritated, “I figured it out on my own.”

“How?” Tommen blurts.

“Grandfather kept us hidden,” she takes Tommen’s hand once more, "So we had to be something bad."

"It's not your fault." Jaime spent a lot of time sitting with the types of thoughts Myrcella is having. They'd done nothing, _ nothing _ to deserve what had been done to them. It's a slow, painful lesson learned in increments. Cersei was _ never _ able to learn it.

"Then why?" 

Tommen looks like he's going to cry. _ Gods, he's like me at that age. _

Myrcella looks angry, "Are we a mistake?” 

It takes all Jaime has not to wince at her words. He should've done _ more_, tried harder. He was so focused on Cersei and afraid of their father that--

"Never," Jaime wants to hug them, but he hasn't earned that. "I couldn't face Father, so I ran away."

Tommen smiles a bit, "He was scary, but he never yelled."

Jaime chuckles, "He didn't need to yell. The calmer he was, the scarier. He used to make me sit and read for _ hours _ when I wanted to play outside."

"Did he want to see you?"

"Only until our Mother died," Jaime takes a deep breath. "Then, he couldn't look at us. He kept us hidden."

"Like us?"

_ Worse. _ But Jaime's not going to say that. "Yes."

"Are you angry?" Myrcella asks.

"And sad, and confused. I've felt many things, and I’ve come to learn that's fine."

He's telling them the same thing he's been telling himself. He couldn't make Cersei understand, but he won't lose anyone else to those feelings. 

Tommen holds out his other hand to Jaime, and the three of them form a circle.

* * *

The lack of sleep the prior night catches up to Brienne. The sun has just sunk below the waterline of the Sunset Sea when she returns to her room, stifling a yawn as she opens the door.

_ Tomorrow_.

Tomorrow, they’ll send Queen Cersei’s body to Lannisport. 

Jaime’s asleep on her bed again. He’s dressed in the clothes she left out for him and he’s atop the blanket. Without those two differences, Brienne might’ve assumed he’d never left. She hasn’t seen him since she left him asleep that morning,

_ He came back here_.

Brenne sits on the edge of the bed and takes the opportunity to brush a lock of hair out of Jaime’s face. It’s good that he’s sleeping--he looks exhausted. He stirs, eyes fluttering open. Brienne freezes, fingertips in the hair at this temple. She feels like she’s caught somewhere she shouldn’t be.

“...Brienne?”

"Yes?"

"You're here."

“It’s my room,” Brienne answers, "You're the guest."

"It's my house."

On another day, she might rise to that barb with one of her own. Today, though, Brienne just moves her fingers back and forth against Jame’s scalp. He closes his eyes again.

“So mulish,” he seems content to carry on a conversation alone.

"I've been called worse."

The banter feels natural, more like in the days past when they'd cross blades. Brienne will let him nettle her endlessly if it means he's in a better place than yesterday. Grief is one thing, wanting to join Cersei is another.

“Thank you,” he pauses, “It’s odd; I’ve said, and thought, that a lot today.”

“Why is that odd?’

He takes a deep breath, but doesn’t open his eyes, “Because my sister is dead, and my father is dead, and I’m still in this _ fucking _house, and yet--”

“I think...you can grieve and be grateful at the same time.”

“Am I allowed?”

The question strikes Brienne--Jaime thinks he’s gone to a place where happiness can’t reach him. "Why wouldn't you be?"

"We left Tommen and Myrcella here."

“Don’t punish yourself. There's nothing to do but look forward. Be their father."

“I will." Jaime opens his eyes. “Can I stay here?”

“...You’re already here.”

“That doesn’t mean I can stay.”

There’s his guilt again, the worry that he’d taken something from her. Truly, Brienne hadn’t minded being his comfort. It was something she didn’t think she had the capacity to offer. They’ll need to talk, again, but it can wait. For now…

“As long as you're fine with sleeping,” Brienne says.

“_Gods, _ I'd like nothing more."

Propriety doesn’t concern Brienne any longer; the peaceful expression that comes over Jaime’s features when she pulls the blankets up around them is worth a tarnished reputation. Jaime curls behind her, this time, and Brienne finally lets herself fall asleep when his breathing slows down.

_ A respite, for a few hours, at least_. 


	17. my heart bends and breaks so many, many times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime doesn’t want to talk to anyone, especially not Melisandre. He nearly requests that Brienne accompany him but can’t make the words come out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're in the home stretch now! Only one chapter and an epilogue left. This chapter contains a reference to infanticide, but it's no more detailed than any in the story thus far. There's also some mild violence at the end involving the botchling.
> 
> This chapter's title comes from the Florence + the Machine song "The End of Love."

Jaime doesn’t want to talk to anyone, _ especially _ not Melisandre. He nearly requests that Brienne accompany him but can’t make the words come out. 

Sleep helped--so did a bath, and a decent meal. _ Keep it simple_, Tyrion told him. When he breathes, he doesn’t feel like he’s being crushed, a marked improvement from yesterday. He spends the morning alone, not liking the wary look both Tyrion _ and _ Brienne give him when he says he’s going to. They both look at him like they want to hold his hands, like he’s going to go away and not return if let out of their sight.

Melisandre is in the chambers above the carriage house where he’d put her upon her arrival. _ Tyrion was right; she does look ridiculous in the space. _The rooms are too modest for the red velvet and jewels.

“Lord Lannister.” The title makes him feel like Tywin--the last person he wants to be. Melisandre holds out her hand to him; Jaime takes it, even though he’d rather not. “My condolences about your sister. She has returned to the Lord of Light, as must we all one day.”

_ Cersei was taken by the house_, Jaime wants to shout. _ It’s not fate. _ To think that it was destined was too much; he can’t think that any of this was _ meant _ to happen to them.

“Thank you,” he manages to reply.

Melisandre looks at him, _ through _ him with her red eyes, “I know why you’ve come to me.”

“The botchling.” It’s easier to say that than to say _ Joffrey._ To think of it as a monster instead of what it _ is_, what it _ was_. He can’t handle lingering on another thing his father took from him. The only course is to stop from losing anything else. 

“It’s good,” she replies, “to be heeded. The botchling festers, _ pollutes_. It feeds on the discord your presence has created; the unhappiness you dredge up in the house. There can be no peace here until it’s calmed.”

_ Peace. _ Jaime clenches his hands into fists, “I assume you know the way of it.”

The smile she gives him is neither warm nor kind, “A ritual. The creature must be buried under the threshold of the house it was discarded from. It must be made to feel welcome, to know that it was loved.”

“And then he’ll--it will be gone?”

Melisandre shakes her head, her curtain of hair moving with. “At peace, the spirit will become a guardian of the house.” 

Jaime almost, _ almost _ laughs at the sheer absurdity of that idea. It doesn’t help that he only half-believes what he’s seen. _ Maybe a guardian spirit would’ve helped_. He knows what’s been taken from him, and what he has left to protect.

_ I’m not craven. _

“How do we start?”

Her next smile is a _ touch _ warmer, but Jaime still wishes she wouldn’t. “I need information about the babe and the circumstances of the death.”

Jaime isn’t Tywin; he knows the weight of a secret and knows what it means to be buried alive by it. If Melisandre needs the truth to do the deed, then Jaime will offer it. “The child is mine--_ ours. _He was born when we were locked upstairs.”

Melisandre just nods for him to continue.

“Father killed him, ripped him from Cersei’s breast and--” Jaime stops and takes a deep breath--he should’ve practiced saying this aloud. He should’ve brought Brienne; she’d stand next to him and hold his hand. “I--I don’t know after that. I never saw anything, and was sent away soon after. The child wasn’t properly buried, correct?”

“No funeral rites,” she explains, “kept a secret and never spoken of. Even if the two of you wanted the child, what happened after is _ perfect _ for the creation and sustainment of a botchling. I’m surprised it hasn’t attacked someone.”

“....The thing can _ attack?” _

Melisandre nods, “Under the right circumstances.”

Jaime shudders like the air has turned cold, and the sunniness of the day does nothing to combat it. “Let’s hurry and be done with it.”

“Wise of you, Lord Lannister; I’ll need time to prepare.”

“Can I aid you?”

“Do you have anything meant for the child?”

“One thing.” Somehow, Jaime is still carrying the bib. He meant to give it back to Cersei, but there was little point to that now. He pulls it out of his pocket and holds it out to Melisandre.

“This will do just fine. Give me one day to prepare what’s needed.”

* * *

Tyrion’s not sure what it says about the universe that _both_ days after his sister’s death dawn bright and sunny. _It’s ironic_ _that the world should look so bright when things are such shit._

His grief is a strange thing. Tyrion’s birth _ started _ his grief, and he’s never not known it. Even when he left, the grief followed him, choked him, and helped him make all manner of less-than-ideal decisions. 

It’s been so long since Cersei showed him a scrap of kindness, so long since he expected anything from her beyond scorn that he grieves for Jaime’s grief more than he feels it for himself. Tyrion supposes it’s a blessing to be able to keep himself together when Jaime, and the house itself, needs that from him. He can deal with the guilt, the complexities of it, when they’re away from here, and he isn’t afraid Jaime will follow their sister off the roof.

So, Tyrion stares at the sea through the window and tries not to think too hard.

_ Just do the next thing. Then, the next thing after that. _

“Lord Tyrion.”

_ Sansa. _

He turns, finds her peering over the back of the sitee he’d chosen. She’s holding a cup of something--not liquor based on the cup, which is a damn fucking shame. Sansa would _ never _ bring him alcohol. 

“Tea?”

She shakes her head, “Coffee.”

“Better.”

Sansa laughs softly and puts the coffee on the small table, “I didn’t add any alcohol to it; my apologies.”

“A tragedy,” Tyrion replies, “but for the best. I need my wits about me.”

Her hair cascades over her shoulder, the auburn of it catches in the sunlight. He wants to touch it--not the first time he’s felt such a compulsion. It wouldn’t even be the first time he’s given in. _ She should wear it down more often. _

Tyrion has seen many, many beautiful women, of high-birth, of low-birth, but he’s never found any of them as soothing as he finds Sansa.

...Or as intelligent.

“Lady Sansa, would you sit with me?”

Her blue eyes widen a bit in surprise, but Sansa rounds the back of the couch and sits next to him. She folds her hands in her lap and looks out at the sea. 

“There’s been two telegrams,” Sansa says a moment later, “from Lannisport.”

Tyrion isn’t sure he can handle much more news, good or bad. Nevertheless, the news will be his whether he can handle it or not. “Oh?”

Sansa reaches into the pocket of her dress and pulls out the scrap of paper, “The first--Genna Frey and Kevan Lannister are coming here this afternoon.”

“Aunt Genna will be thrilled to need to wear mourning colors again so soon,” Tyrion replies, “and Uncle Kevan will scrabble at trying to take Casterly Rock for himself. Although...before, Jaime and I were discussing letting him have it.”

“It’s not my place to advise,” Sansa chooses the words carefully, “but you could tell them not to come.”

Tyrion laughs, “That won’t stop either of them, but I’m fond of the idea.”

“They requested a reply; what would you have me say?”

_ A question for Jaime. _ A question Tyrion won’t ask his brother.

“That Casterly Rock welcomes them. We’ll deal with the rest of it when they get here,” Tyrion takes a drink of coffee--it’s black, expertly-brewed, and he can think of several liqueurs that would compliment it well. “What’s the second?”

Sansa pauses, “From King’s Landing. King Robert has been told of the queen’s death.”

“Oh _ gods_, he’s not fucking coming here too, is he?” Robert Baratheon is the last thing they need.

He must look a bit panicked because Sansa reaches out and touches his shoulder, “He’s not coming. My apologies--they’ve requested the body be returned to King’s Landing.”

“She _ was _ a queen.”

“The coroner is leaving today; I believe your aunt and uncle should accompany the queen back to Lannisport tomorrow. From there, train passage can be arranged.”

Tyrion Lannister doesn’t _ do _ these things; he drinks to forget and fucks whores. He’s not in charge of Casterly Rock, even as he enjoys how their father would writhe over the knowledge. 

“So be it.”

Sansa nods, resolute, and returns the papers to her pocket. There’s a significant pause before she glances in his direction and says, “You’re overwhelmed, aren’t you?”

Her question is a bit like being tossed out of someone’s room naked. Sansa ripped straight to the heart of the matter, just like she had the mystery of the house. _ Clever, as always. _ Desiring Sansa isn’t a bad thing; he wants her for her mind, and the care in her expression. To have her notice that he’s in need of something, to have her hand him a coffee _ before _ she reads him the telegrams-- _ no one, _ except Jaime. has ever paid such close attention to him. 

Sansa is watching him, the slightest crease between her brows.

“I...am."

“You’re worried for Ser Jaime,” Sansa continues, “and grieving.”

“I’m not in enough anguish,” Tyrion blurts, “I’m...more concerned for Jaime than I am sad about the event. And I feel like there’s no _ time _for me to--”

He’s pushing it down, _ burying _ it--

Tyrion doesn’t expect Sansa to wrap her arms around him. It’s a loose embrace--just a hand between his shoulder blades. He held her closer, the night they spent together. 

“_ Whatever _ you’re feeling,” she says, “there’s no guilt in it.”

It’s a weakness, to lean in to Sansa like he does. But he _ does_, rests his forehead against her shoulder. No one _ ever _ catches him--he’d fallen in lots of places, mostly unsavory. 

“Are you certain of that, Lady Sansa?”

“It’s complex, and you’re in the middle of it. There’s no correct path to grief; it’s different for everyone, and it loops in on itself until you think there’s no end.”

“Nothing is permanent.”

He feels Sansa nod.

The sentiment is oddly comforting. The sections of his life--captivity, the time at Casterly Rock, then after he loosed himself, all felt interminable. A side effect, perhaps, of his hedonistic desire to _ drown _ himself. Time is rendered meaningless when he did nothing but seek to pass it.

Sansa is still holding him, and Tyrion feels no desire to end it before she does. If anything, he relaxes into the embrace and lets Sansa hold him up.

“You’re quite wise.”

She laughs softly, “I’m not, truly. If I were, I’d have done many things differently.”

_ She’s too young to have regrets. _

“I fear Jaime will follow Cersei. It would be her last cruelty to me.”

“Brienne is watching over him, as are you. We won’t let it happen.”

That “_ we” _ means more to Tyrion than he can ever express. The comfort of knowing someone on the outside is _ watching _ and cares enough to lend strength. Tyrion is out of reserves to pull from.

“Lady Sansa, if Casterly Rock were yours, what would you choose?”

“It’s not my place--”

_ “ _Please, I inquired.”

“I’d sell it, I think, to someone who wanted to use it for some good work.”

“Uncle Kevan can have it on the condition--”

Sansa nods, “...That he do something to better the community.”

_ I like that idea. _ To take this place, where nothing good has happened in decades, and _ make _ it happen. When Tyrion moves to look at Sansa, she’s smiling kindly. Tyrion’s interest in her is so intense that there’s no preamble before he leans in and kisses her. Sansa, hand still on his back, softens to the gesture immediately. She’s not pliant, not that Tyrion would seek her to be, but she’s sweet, and clever, and when he looks at her, after, Sansa is blushing like a maiden.

“Are you _ occupied _ at the moment?” Tyrion can’t discern if he’s too anxious to be direct, or if he enjoys watching Sansa parse through his inferences.

She looks at him, “Are you...seeking comfort?”

“I won’t deny that I slept better that night.”

“My sleep was restful as well.”

Tyrion chuckles, “Let it never be said I don’t know how to tire myself out.”

To his immense surprise, Sansa rises from the chair to lock the door to the sitting room. When she returns to sit next to him, Tyrion _ must _ look flabbergasted because she starts laughing.

“I enjoyed our time,” Sansa says, “It defied the stories I’d heard of men taking their pleasure and giving nothing back.”

“Men who don’t take pleasure in giving it are fools.”

“Oh,” she’s blushing, “I--I’ve never heard anyone put it that way.”

“Because bedding is a _ duty_, Lady Sansa.” This conversation is _ dramatically _ improving his mood. “What point is there in any frills?”

“I liked the...frills,” Sansa replies; she’s charming when she’s nervous. “No one tells girls about things like that. It’s improper.”

“We’ve barely touched the surface of impropriety.”

“I don’t mean to untoward, but if you--” She pauses, “The telegram can wait an hour.” 

Truly, Tyrion can’t think of anything he’d enjoy more. It feels quite maudlin to say it, but after an hour in Sansa’s company, he thinks he could exit the room and bear the weight of things again. She’s watching him, eyes curious and cheeks flushed. 

_ There's deviousness to her. _Tyrion kisses her again, reaching for the buttons on her blouse as he does so. He thinks he’s being too forward, but Sansa meets him there and is smiling when he pulls away from her. Then, she reaches for him.

“Does _ everyone _ underestimate you?”

“Yes.”

* * *

The first thing Aunt Genna says upon entering the foyer that afternoon is “I barely had a chance to put away my mourning clothes before I had to take them out again.” She has her hands on her hips and she surveys Jaime and Tyrion. She notices Brienne and Sansa, who try to look official. Brienne wore her City Watch uniform, which Jaime hadn’t seen in a few days--she’d been wearing regular men’s garb. She gestures at the two of them, “Who are these two?”

“Aunt Genna, this is Brienne of Tarth, from the City Watch in King’s Landing,” Tyrion steps in, and Jaime is grateful. “And this is her assistant, Sansa Stark.”

“Hmm, _ highborn_, both of you,” Genna looks between the two of them, “Why are you here?”

Brienne opens her mouth; Jaime imagines she’s going to recite her City Watch orders. Jaime would’ve mocked her for it, once, but now the stiffness of her delivery would charm him. At the moment, he could use finding charm in something, so he imagines it.

“We were sent,” Sansa interjects, “to investigate Lord Tywin’s death.”

“He fell over dead at his desk; there’s not much to investigate,” Genna replies, “I’d say Cersei’s death warrants more. What would drive her to such an act?”

The problem remains that Aunt Genna and Uncle Kevan know _ nothing. _ Tywin’s grip on the secret had been so tight, so absolute, that neither of his father’s siblings had any concept of what they’d been put through. Genna is asking a question Jaime can’t answer.

_ The ghost of our mother. _

_ The house. _

_ Her children not knowing her. _

_ Her inability to accept help. _

Jaime glances to Brienne, who looks at him helplessly. “Cersei was unwell, for a long time. I did what I could for her, but I wasn’t--”

_ Enough. _ He could never, ever give enough of himself to satisfy. Cersei asked for his life, in the end, and Jaime couldn’t grant that. 

To Jaime’s surprise, Aunt Genna places a hand on his shoulder, “Whatever the reason, you’re not to blame. You’re the least like Tywin, but I’d hope you’d at least know you’re not to blame for others’ behavior. Whatever spirit took her, you’ve no part in it.”

“You’re right, Aunt Genna, Father never did understand that actions have consequences.”

_ Mine, too. _ He glaces to his left and can only see the tops of Tommen’s and Myrcella’s heads through the doorway. They hover, curious and unseen, just as they’d been taught to do. If he asks, they’ll come out, and Aunt Genna can meet them.

“Uncle Kevan,” Tyrion jumps in, “we need to discuss the state of the estate.”

Kevan nods, “We’ll escort Cersei’s body back to Lannisport tomorrow. Then, to King’s Landing. Will you be coming with us?”

Tyrion shakes his head, “No, we will follow you in a day or two--there’s business to finish up here.”

“Let’s go to Father’s study,” Jaime says, “we can look at everything there.”

“Let’s,” Aunt Genna agrees, “I feel like someone is about to make a terrible financial decision.”

As they leave the foyer, Brienne catches his hand in her own and squeezes it. She isn’t smiling, but she’s looking at him, clear and steady. Jaime feels tethered to the earth when Brienne looks at him like that. 

_ I can do this. _

“Later,” she whispers, “I’m here if you need me.”

Jaime squeezes her hand, “I will.”

* * *

Tyrion isn't sure what sort of preamble Jaime intends when he follows Genna and Kevan into their father's study. He meant to talk to Jaime about his conversation with Sansa, but there'd been no chance.

Well, there might've been a chance, but Tyrion managed his time poorly. He thinks it was time well spent, but that doesn't change that what he _should've_ been doing was conversing with Jaime over affairs involving their estate.

Instead, he had a _ very _ different conversation with Sansa. Everything else was _ shit, _but that moment was very, very good.

With some resistance, Tyrion drags his mind back to the task at hand. Jaime sits at Tywin's desk, and it highlights how deceiving appearances can be. Jaime _ looks _ right in that seat, their patriarch now, and only himself, and certainly Aunta Genna, know the right of it.

Uncle Kevan was a bit like their father---huge blind spots in his vision; although, his were much more benign. Kevan certainly hadn't locked his children in an attic.

Aunt Genna looks mildly bored; Tyrion agrees with her desire to hasten the proceedings.

"Jaime--" he opens with.

To his chagrin, Jaime waves a hand and interrupts him, "You want this done as much as I do. Don't worry."

"I assume you'll resign from the Kingsguard and reside here?" Uncle Kevan guesses.

Jaime shakes his head, "No. I'm leaving here two days hence and _ never _returning." He opens a drawer and pulls out a folder Tyrion recognizes--it contains the deeds to Casterly Rock and the Lannister mines. He holds them out to Kevan.

Poor Uncle Kevan looks confused, but takes the folder and opens it. "The deed to the house?"

"Your eyes aren't deceiving you, brother,” Aunt Genna says, “That is indeed what you are seeing."

"The house and the mines," Jaime explains. "They're yours. This house has brought death, captivity, and harm to everyone I've ever loved. I won't stay another day and let the ghosts that haunt this place exact their toll."

Tyrion has the urge to run to Jaime, to comfort him as he might've done half his life ago. Jaime never denied him affection as children. But he's a man grown, now, so he bolsters his brother with words. "Father never cared for my opinion, but _ fuck him. _" Genna laughs into her hand. "I'm in accordance with Jaime on this. I would burn this house to the ground and dance on its ashes."

"But it's our ancestral seat," Kevan says.

"Which is why I think we should do something Father would _ hate_." Tyrion grins. "Jaime, if I may, I have a suggestion for the next step in his house's life."

_ Well, Sansa has a suggestion, really. _

Jaime brightens, happy for Tyrion to pick up the task. 

"You can have the house, and you can even live here if you are such a glutton for punishment, but you _ must _ do something good with the space. An orphanage, a school, _ something." _

"Oh," Genna sounds _ gleeful_, "Tywin would've _ hated _that."

Kevan looks perplexed, but he answers, "I accept."

Jaime smiles for the first time in three days and leans back in the chair, "Then I fucking _ love _ it."

* * *

Brienne is a woman of action, so when there's no action to be had, she paces. Sansa has observed it many times--around her apartment, around City Watch headquarters, and around crime scenes.

Today, it's around the sitting room at Casterly Rock.

"Lord Tyrion thinks they should give the house to Uncle Kevan," Sansa says.

"What about the children? Can Jaime Lannister show up in King's Landing with two obviously Lannister children and hope no one will notice?"

It's certainly a rhetorical question, but Sansa answers it regardless. "Of course not. All of high society will effectively _ faint_. And people will speculate," she pauses in thought. "I honestly don't think anyone will guess the correct answer."

Brienne collapses into a chair, "Who would?"

"Their guesses won't be any better."

"They can't live in his Kingsguard chamber," Brienne replies, "He'll have to obtain new lodgings, which takes time."

"Set Jaime has more money than sense, even _ after _ divesting himself of Casterly Rock. I'm sure he'll manage."

Brienne looks the utmost skeptical.

"They're not your children," Sansa crosses her arms, "You have a plan Brienne--I can see it on your face."

"Tarth."

_ That is _ not _ what I was expecting. _

"Tarth," Sansa repeats, "You'd send them to Evenfall? How is that preferable to here?"

"Not interminably."

"Until when, then?"

"Just until Jaime has time to get his affairs in order. If he intends to resign from the Kingsguard, that will take time."

Sansa feels her eyebrows creeping towards her hairline. This is _ definitely _ one of Brienne's less conventional plans. "Will your lord father welcome a stranger's children into his home."

She's never met Lord Selwyn Tarth, but Brienne's descriptions and stories made him sound stern but kind.

"He will if I'm there."

"What lies will you have to tell him?"

"Only that they are Jaime's, and their mother is dead."

"Are you quitting the City Watch?" The thought of that gives Sansa a mild panic; she'd be behind a desk again without Brienne's partnership. "You can't," she blurts, "I need you."

Brienne comes to her, reaching out and taking Sansa's smaller hands in her own. "I only meant to escort them and remain until Jaime is ready for them. It's been a long time since I was home."

Sansa feels a bit silly for overreacting, but she squeezes Brienne's hands regardless. "Good. You _ have _ to protect me."

"You can stab an assailant yourself," Brienne smiles and squeezes Sansa's hands in return, "But no, I won't leave you."

* * *

There’s wiser courses, Sansa knows, than to go walking the grounds at night. 

Sleep eludes her, though, and all the other concerned parties in the house need as much as they can get. She can’t imagine waking up Tyrion, and Brienne is certainly with Jaime.

No, Sansa knows when to quiet her mind on her own.

She takes it upon herself to pace until her body tires enough that her mind will follow. There’s some tactic about choosing to go outside--every instance of Sansa’s nighttime wandering leads to prying, and that’s a double-edged sword. The yarn of the truth has been untangled, but even smoothed out, evidence of the knots remain, like when she used to rip back her knitting over and over as a girl.

_ Some things can’t be mended; they have to be cut off or cut out. _

Sansa loops through the gardens, guided by moonlight and her lantern. With some forethought, she wore her boots, so the lingering mud from the rain doesn’t bother her. _ This place was beautiful, once. _It still is, but it’s an unkempt, sad sort of beauty. 

The terrace is Sansa’s last stop. _ A crime scene, technically. _ Sansa kneels, putting the lantern on the flagstones beside her. Then, she reaches out and touches the stone, cool in the night air. _ It looks so normal, now. _

With the queen’s body interred in the parlor, the space looks as though nothing occurred. The rest of the house held the presence of the events more than this--the coroner, the inspector, and possibly Clegane cleaned everything up. Sansa remembers the queen’s body, broken on the ground. If she closes her eyes, she can see it. It’s why people move after a crime; the space holds the memory long after the evidence has been filed away, and they can’t bring themselves to live or work in the space.

_ If they’re giving the house to Kevan Lannister, it’s better the less he knows. _

Sansa is still kneeling, eyes closed and mind wandering, when she hears a rustling. Opening her eyes, she reaches for her folding knife in the pocket of her dressing gown. _ Every noise in this house has me on edge. It’s probably an owl. _

The noise repeats, closer, and this instance is followed by a low keening sound. Sansa looks in the direction of the noise, but all she sees is murky darkness, the moon having gone behind a cloud. A chill runs down her spine, despite the warmth of the night, so she draws the knife from her pocket and unfolds it.

A sudden movement in her peripheral vision startles her, and Sansa looks to it. A creature is barreling towards her, quadrupedal, but it’s still too dark to make out anything beyond that. The next noise is more of a screech than a keening, and, suddenly, Sansa is on her back on the flagstones. She hits the lantern with her arm and knocks it aside, causing the flame to go out. Her knife falls out of her hand.

_ The botchling. _

It digs it claws into the front of her nightdress. Sansa screams and flails, trying to keep its pointed teeth from tearing into her. She scrambles, fumbling for her knife, and manages to grab it and stab the botchling in the side. The thing shrieks, turning its head and sinking its teeth into her wrist.

There is a moment, then, when everything seems to slow down, and Sansa thinks _ I’m a foolish girl who’s in over her head. _ She can’t even summon anything poetic or ironic about meeting such an untimely demise. _ Mother was right. _

A loud and sudden _ thwack _ jarrs Sansa out of the thought. The botchling wails once as it goes sailing. The teeth, still clamped on her arm, dislodge, which almost hurts more. There’s a skittering noise that Sansa assumes is the botchling retreating back to the underbrush.

Her savior is holding a lantern that shines above her. Sansa looks up to find the grizzled visage of Sandor Clegane looming over her.

“They _ really _need to do something about that fuckin’ thing,” he growls.

“Ser Jaime talked to Lady Melisandre today,” Sansa answers, clutching at her bleeding arm, “there’s a ritual to send it on.”

“Not in time to help you,” Sandor hauls her up by the arm, “the longer the thing runs free, the angrier it gets.”

Sansa presses the torn sleeve of her dressing down against the wound, wincing, “I’ve noticed.”

“Why the _ hell _ are you even out here?”

Irritated, Sansa replies, “Why are you?”

Sandor barks a laugh, “Little birds answer questions; they don’t ask them.”

Sansa pulls her other arm out from his grasp, “I was thinking, and I have as much of a right to be here as you.”

“I can defend myself.”

“I would’ve managed.” Sandor’s lantern provides enough light for Sansa to bend down and pick up her knife; there’s blood on it, and she wipes it clean with her handkerchief. Carrying the knife is one thing, but she’d never actually _ used _it. Sansa is embarrassed to see that her hands are shaking. “But I thank you, nevertheless, for saving me.”

“Come,” he grunts, “that wound needs cleaned.”

Sansa thinks she would struggle to do so herself, and doesn’t want to worry Brienne or Tyrion by waking them, so she follows.


	18. and you deserve to be loved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Good morning, Lady Melisandre,” says Sansa.
> 
> “Indeed,” Melisandre smiles, but Tyrion finds little warmth or kindness in the gesture. “A fortuitous day. I’ve prepared what’s needed for the sending ritual. We meet at dusk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rise from the ashes to bring you this, the final chapter! An epilogue will follow, and I promise to post it before the fic hits its one year anniversary. I hope you enjoy the conclusion of this, long _long_ journey.
> 
> Chapter title is, again, from Florence + the Machine's song "Third Eye."
> 
> The botchling sending ritual rites are lifted straight from _The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt._

Sansa winces when Tyrion places his hand on her left arm in the hall after breakfast. The fabric of her blouse is thin enough that he feels the extra layer of the cloth beneath it.

“Lady Sansa?”

Tyrion expects her to pull her arm away, but she undoes the two buttons at the cuff of the sleeve and pushes it back. Not for the first time, Tyrion finds the bit of skin shown more tempting than he would any overt gesture. He’s busy admiring the slow reveal when Sansa uncovers a linen bandage wound around her forearm. Tyrion looks at it, then back up to her.

“You’re going to scold me,” she says, admonished, “but I went for a walk.”

He raises both of his eyebrows, “I’m going to assume you _ don’t _ mean in the safe, pleasant light of the afternoon?”

Sansa laughs, “No, my lord, that would be decidedly unlike myself, I think.”

“Gods, it would be. Tell me you got hit by a tree branch or something equally benign.”

Her expression sobers, and she shakes her head, “Joffrey, in the yard. I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a walk outside.”

“Is this a trend regarding you?” Tyrion wonders if she does this in King’s Landing, leaves her boarding house and goes wandering through the crime-ridden streets of Flea Bottom to clear her head. _ I can imagine it so easily. _Sansa would put her knife in the pocket of her dress.

“It’s...yes, it seems to be.”

“Yet, this instance saw you outside, rather than wandering the house or,” Tyrion lowers his voice, “to my chambers.”

“I didn’t want to disturb you.”

Tyrion presses his fingers against the bandage, “How severe is it?”

“A puncture wound,” Sansa explains, “it looks like a row of teeth.”

“Did you fight the botchling off yourself?”

“No, Sandor struck it with a shovel; he bandaged my arm, too.”

_ Remind me to thank the brute next time I see him. _Tyrion pats Sansa’s arm and, a bit begrudgingly, returns her sleeve to its normal position. She’s watching him, but if the encounter frightened her, it doesn’t show on her face.

“You’re quite...unflappable, are you not?”

She colors the slightest bit, “No. It was quite a fright because it’s not something that can be reasoned with. The botchling is _ angry _ , Lord Tyrion. It’s more than just a beast; I could _ feel _it. I don’t have the language to explain it, but the despair was almost tangible.”

“Lady Sansa,” Tyrion shouldn’t fall back on puerile innuendo now, but it’s been his companion much longer than sincerity, “Next time you want to wander in the pre-dawn hours, wander to my door. I promise to keep you well-occupied and distracted.”

“That would create a whole _ host _ of rumors back in King’s Landing, my lord.”

“Well, I’ve always lived in Jaime’s shadow. I think people will be _ quite _ occupied twittering about him for you to sneak freely by.”

Sansa’s smile is all mischief, “I think I’d quite like that; I am the paramount of discretion, if need be.”

_ She’s a light in all of this. _The idea of calling on her in King’s Landing is a bit unbelievable, but Tyrion is going to do it. He can see it, perhaps, if he tries. He means to kiss Sansa, or at least tell her what she’s added to his existence these past weeks, but the door to the dining room opens.

The entrance is so abrupt that Tyrion almost looks up and expects to see Cersei. The idea sends a chill down his spine. _ A ghost of a different kind. _ Sansa turns her gaze to the door and places a hand on Tyrion’s arm. Sansa is a dozen tiny, thoughtful gestures. 

It’s not Cersei but the Red Priestess, sweeping into the dining room with a trail of velvet skirts.

Sansa rises and bows; the whole exchange is over before Tyrion can climb out of the dining room chair. If Melisandre finds it rude, or even notices his presence, she doesn’t let on.

“Good morning, Lady Melisandre,” says Sansa.

“Indeed,” Melisandre smiles, but Tyrion finds little warmth or kindness in the gesture. “A fortuitous day. I’ve prepared what’s needed for the sending ritual. We meet at dusk.”

* * *

Cersei’s body is being transported to Lannisport today, and Jaime isn’t sure he can be there when it happens. _ I owe it to her. _ One last vigil. Jaime knows the parlor where they placed her body, but he didn’t go near it the entire day prior. He couldn’t save her, couldn’t give her what she asked, so the least he can do is be there to see her taken away to be laid to rest.

Truly, though, his sister is dead and would have no notion of his presence. Everything that made Cersei who she was is gone from the body laid out in the parlor. Jaime has never ascribed much faith in the Seven, but hopes Cersei finds peace in meeting the Stranger.

_ A peace life couldn’t give her. _Hopefully, the house won’t keep her in death, too.

Jaime skips breakfast and holes himself up in Tywin’s study. Oddly, aside from the guest room Brienne occupies, the study is the least offensive room at Casterly Rock. He rarely went into the room as a child and remembers being shooed out of it.

The painting of Joanna above the mantle is comforting, too--Jaime is beginning to think he’s the only one who won’t get to see their mother. Tyrion and the children recounted her as a gentle spirit, but Jaime can’t forget the way Cersei had said she was angry.

_ Why has she shown herself to everyone but me? _Tyrion and the children never knew her, but Jaime remembers her clearly, and he knows Cersei did, too. He’s been dwelling on the idea for several moments when there’s a light knock on the door, and Brienne opens it enough to peer her head in.

“Lord Tyrion told me you might be here,” she says, “You didn’t come down to breakfast, either.”

Brienne was gone when he awoke, but that didn’t bother Jaime. It was good to share her bed and get another decent night’s sleep. He’d miss her presence in King’s Landing

“I wasn’t hungry,” Jaime admits, “but I find that I am, now.”

The door opens further, and Brienne produces a plate of sandwiches. It’s not quite midday, but it’s late enough that the notion of eating breakfast is no longer appealing. She enters the room and places them on the edge of the desk.

“I thought you might be.”

Jaime’s stomach grumbles loud enough for both of them to hear. “Wench, I could fall in love with you over this. You always seem to know what I need the most.”

Brienne freezes; Jaime does, too, once he realizes the words that poured out of his idiotic mouth. _ I’m exhausted, _ he could say. Or, he could laugh. _ That might hurt her. _It would put them back on familiar ground, but it also wouldn’t ring the truth.

Perhaps the timing is wretched; in fact, Jaime _ knows _ the timing is wretched. Brienne gave him enough, and Jaime intends to pay her back tenfold. The confluence of circumstances is bad enough without him dumping his feelings onto Brienne, in addition to the woes of his family and his grief.

Jaime takes a bite of the sandwich--egg salad and lettuce, and he flounders some more. Brienne still hasn’t moved an inch. Jaime doesn’t think she will, either. She always stays and _ stays. _ As the horrible secrets piled on, and Jaime suffocated under the weight of them, Brienne was there. She pointed a blade at him in the yard, or held him while the world crumbled, or offered herself as comfort.

_ I could love her. _ Jaime is shocked at _ how _ comfortable the idea feels; it feels like he’s halfway there.

Eventually, Brienne says, “I-Is it to your liking?” 

“It is,” Jaime replies. “Thank you.”

“I’ll leave you to your work; Sansa might have need of me.”

“This isn’t work,” Jaime blurts, “I’m only thinking, possibly in circles. This room is just quiet. I can’t eat all these sandwiches.”

“I may have made too many.”

“No, I mean you should help me eat them.”

Brienne nods sharply before pulling one of the spare chairs closer to the desk. Once seated, she takes one of the quartered sandwiches and eats in silence. 

A few moments pass. While he’s had many companionable silences with Brienne over the past fortnight, this isn’t one of them. Brienne eats her sandwich with an unbearable slowness, and Jaime starts to lose his appetite.

Finally, in frustration, he says, “There’s little point in pretending I didn’t utter the words.”

“I--” she scowls, “It was a turn of phrase; there’s no need to discuss it.”

“I disagree.”

“Jaime.”

“Brienne,” he matches her dour tone, “You’ve done more for me in the last fortnight than anyone has in my entire _ life.” _Even the night prior, Jaime found peace in her arm tossed over him as he slept. “I’m ready to quit this place, but I shall miss what we have.”

“...I will, too.” Brienne’s reply is very quiet.

“Cersei and I tore at one another, and when I couldn’t bear it any longer, she tore at herself. I’ve never known love that wasn’t like that.” He reaches across the desk and covers Brienne’s hand with his own; she meets his gaze, and Jaime, once again, is distracted by her eyes. “You’re the opposite; loving you would be like growing.”

“Growing?”

“I feel as though I can do more in your company.” Jaime waves his other hand as if to gesture to the house around them. “I’ve been _ stuck _ here, and you saved me. I’m ready to try, and I’m not sure I can do it alone.”

“I’ll aid you,” Brienne answers, “Just tell me what I can do.”

“You deserve better, though, Brienne. You deserve someone who can give you their full attention. I’m not there yet, but I’ve grown selfish and covetous.”

“What do you mean?”

Jaime smiles with a touch of bitterness, “It would please me if you’d wait for me. When this is a bit further behind me, I can love you properly without ghosts at my back.”

Brienne’s cheeks grow rosy, and she covers her mouth with the hand Jaime isn’t clasping. It’s surprising, and pleasing, to see her react in such a way. “I-I can wait, Jaime.”

Suddenly, it’s like a weight has been lifted from Jaime’s chest; his next smile is happier. “Could you love me despite all _ this?” _

“You’re a _ victim,” _ Brienne replies, “Who could blame you?”

“That’s not the same as--”

“It would be easy to love you.”

_ Easy. _ Jaime isn’t certain about that, but Brienne’s faith warms his heart. It warms it so much that he wants to kiss her, which might be construed as the opposite of waiting. When he leans over the desk to touch her cheek, Brienne glances up at his touch and shuts her eyes.

_ Perhaps it’s welcome after all. _

They haven’t kissed since the morning prior. Jaime feels considerably lighter today, and the kiss is better for it. When he pulls away, Brienne gives him the smallest of smiles--a gift amongst all the other wretched things. If she’s in the future, he can make it.

“Now, did you only come here to deliver sandwiches?”

“No,” Brienne hesitates, “I had an idea regarding Tommen and Myrcella.”

“Oh?”

“Only if you’re seeking help, of course.”

_ Gods, how could I not be? _ Jaime tries to keep the desperation out of his countenance. The children have no one to provide for them aside from him, and he is _ terrified. _ Shae could see to their day-to-day needs, but Jaime doesn’t want to be absent. They deserve what Cersei, Tyrion, and he never had. They deserve what they’d been denied.

“I’m in no position to refuse aid.”

“Tarth.”

“Tarth?” Jaime repeats, “Like your island?

Brienne nods, “I know there are tasks to complete when you return to King’s Landing in order to make ready for them. I thought, perhaps, Tommen and Myrcella might like to visit Tarth while that happens.”

“You’d look after,” Jaime realizes he’s never uttered this aloud, “...my children?”

“Just for a few weeks. Shae would be welcome, too--I know little about children.”

“I know _ nothing.” _

“Evenfall is an old manor, and my father won’t admit it, but I know he’s burdened by his solitude.” Brienne looks a bit guilty, and Jaime realizes that while her disposition is so clear to him, he knows so little about her past. “I’ve been meaning to visit Tarth for some time.”

“I think you’ve earned a reprieve after this assignment.”

“You’ve earned a rest as well,” Brienne replies. “Tarth is beautiful, and there would be plenty to keep Tommen and Myrcella occupied.”

“They’re easy to excite.” Jaime wishes that didn’t sound so sad. “I...Brienne, that would be an immense help. They can’t stay in my Kingsguard chamber, and money isn’t an issue, but--”

_ It’s overwhelming. _

“Y-you could come once your affairs are settled. We can return to King’s Landing together, and then--”

Jaime takes her hand once more, “Anything we choose.”

* * *

Aunt Genna, Uncle Kevan, and Tyrion hold a miniature vigil for Cersei in the front parlor. The coroner is set to arrive just after midday, and Sansa is grateful for it. The room doesn’t smell, yet, but Sansa has spent enough time in Flea Bottom’s alleys and the mogue in King’s Landing to know it won’t be long.

Tyrion and Jaime don’t need to see that. The memory of Cersei’s body in the garden will be haunting enough in the weeks to come. 

Thankfully, a heavy white sheet covers her, now.

Sansa leans against the wall near the closed door; she’s only present in case anyone asks any official questions or if Tyrion has need of her. _ My work isn’t done, of course. _The four-day train journey back to King’s Landing will be a vacation compared to the bureaucratic and social nightmare that awaits once word of the Queen’s death spreads across the Seven Kingdoms.

_ Queen Cersei and King Robert left no heirs, either. _The king has enough alleged bastards running about Westeros, but that doesn’t help.

The report Brienne and she will need to write will take _ some _ time, especially given what they need to omit and coordinate in their stories. It won’t do to have Addam Marband asking them questions and getting two conflicting sets of answers.

Genna, perched in a particularly uncomfortable looking chair, looks at the grandfather clock against the wall; it reads twenty minutes after midday. “Well, we couldn’t expect an ounce of punctuality at the end of this wretched affair.”

“A royal retinue, even one collecting the body of the queen, will arrive when it wishes,” Kevan blusters. 

“We are a touch at their mercy,” Tyrion paces the open area in front of the chairs in a small circle.

Genna purses her lips but doesn’t disagree. Then, she looks to Sansa, “Your name is Sansa Stark, isn’t it?”

Surprised at being addressed, Sansa straightens and moves away from the wall. “Yes, Lady Frey.”

The look Genna gives her is all appraisal, “You’ve a smart look about you.”

“I--thank you.”

Genna turns to Tyrion, “Your reputation precedes you, nephew. Don’t pull Lady Sansa into the mess you’ve made of your life.”

Tyrion stops pacing, and Sansa can see him bristle at the judgment. Then, his shoulders slump a bit, and he sighs. “I’m well aware, Aunt Genna.”

She simply responds, “Good.”

The sitting room faces the drive leading to the house; Sansa hears the unmistakable sound of horse hooves on the cobblestones. 

Kevan stands and parts the heavy curtains to look outside, “I believe they’re here.”

The carriage parked before the front door is large enough to hold a body, and the door bears the stag sigil of house Baratheon. Two men dressed in black suits exit, and Sansa and Tyrion go to greet them.

“Will Jaime come to see the Queen off?” Sansa whispers as they enter the foyer.

“I don’t know,” Tyrion replies, “It’s...it might be too much.”

“I’m here,” Jaime calls out from halfway up the stairs, “I--I thought I should be.”

“I think we both should be,” Tyrion answers.

Brienne follows behind Jaime and makes eye contact with Sansa, who smiles and nods in response. When they get to the bottom of the stairs, Sansa sees Brienne take Jaime’s hand and squeeze it. She can’t help but be pleased at the sight_ . _

Tyrion doesn’t reach for her, but Sansa stands close enough that he could if he wished, certain he knows she’ll do what she can.

The four of them huddle together in the foyer and watch Cersei Lannister leave Casterly Rock for the last time.

* * *

When the sun dips below the horizon line, and the last tendrils of purple fade from the sky, Melisandre gathers them in the side yard of the house. 

The blood-red of Melisandre’s gown melts into the darkness of the yard, lit only by a small circle of candles on the cobblestones. Melisandre stands in the center and holds out her arms. “We’ve gathered this evening to right a grievous injustice that was committed in this house.”

Brienne leans against the wall of the house near the door with her arms crossed. Sansa, beside her, leans in and whispers, “You’re still skeptical, are you not?”

“You’ll forgive me for not believing something until I’ve seen it _ clearly _ for myself.”

“It attacked me, you know.” Sansa sighs, “but you wouldn’t be Brienne if you didn’t need to see it yourself.”

“The naming ritual will quiet the botchling’s despair,” Meslisandre continues, “Once calmed, the babe’s spirit will be at peace. This is what R’hllor wishes and what must be done before the botchling grows more malcontent and dangerous.”

Jaime, standing a few feet before Brienne asks, “How do we summon it here? Jof--the botchling runs when we approach it, and it attacked Lady Sansa.”

Next to Brienne, Sansa wraps her fingers around her arm where the bandages are. Brienne helped Sansa rebandage it after supper, and the wound was clean. 

“The person who rejected the babe, who harmed it, must make amends. If they are truly filled with remorse, the botchling _ should _ come calmly.” Melisandre gestures to the candles that encircle them, and the flames burn brighter. “The Lord of Light will aid in our protection.”

Tyrion, beside Jaime, speaks up. “The person who harmed the babe is our father, and he’s in the ground. Any remorse he felt died with him.”

_ Jaime. _ Brienne committed herself to the role of a silent observer, but the course of action seems obvious to her.

“I-I can do it,” Jaime looks at the ground as he speaks, then glances upward. “The babe...he’s Cersei’s and mine, and we weren’t able to protect him.”

“Jaime,” Tyrion interjects, “there was _ nothing _you or our sister could’ve done--”

“That doesn’t matter. There’s no one else left.”

Melisandre pulls a scrap of fabric from the folds of her sleeve. Brienne can’t make it out clearly, but Sansa leans into her and whispers, “A bib for a babe; Queen Cersei made it, and I found it upstairs.”

Brienne chooses that moment _ not _ to chide Sansa for snooping.

When Melisandre holds out her hand, Jaime takes the bib and crumples it between his fingers. Brienne is overcome with the urge to go to him, but there’s nothing she can do. _ Some things must be faced alone. _

“If you call for the botchling, it will come.”

Jaime nods. “I-I’m sorry. I know you can’t understand. We were _ terrified, _ and much too young, but Cersei _ wanted _ to be a good mother.” Brienne sees him swallow and shake his head. “The person who truly is to blame isn’t here, and I’m not sure if he ever felt remorse. We were his victims, just as you were.”

Sansa takes Brienne’s hand and squeezes; Brienne wishes she could do the same for Jaime.

“Beckon it,” Melisandre says.

“I’m trying to right the wrongs that were done in this house. I-If you come here, we can free you.”

For a long while, nothing happens. The skeptical part of Brienne’s mind says this is the obvious outcome because ghosts and botchlings and Red Priestesses aren’t real. Jaime is looking ahead, scanning the night like he expects something to jump out from the darkened garden.

There’s a rustling, and _ something _does.

The creature skitters into the circle of candles, knocking one onto the flagstones, and it gutters out. 

Sansa squeezes Brienne’s hand even tighter, “That’s it.”

Even in the flickering candlelight, the creature is _ hideous-- _it crawls like a babe, but it’s movements are stilted and unnatural. The hairless skin covering it looks slick and mottled red and purple. Brienne gets the barest glance of the botchling’s rows of pointed teeth.

_ They match Sansa’s wound perfectly. _

Brienne remembers the keening noise the creature made when they spotted it that afternoon in the garden. In contrast, the botchling is silent now as it crawls to Jaime’s feet. Jaime takes half a step back, and Melisandre shakes her head.

“You mustn't reject it. Pick it up.”

_ “Pick it up?” _Jaime repeats.

“It was denied affection, and it’s life was brief and cruel. You must give it that before it can know peace.”

Jaime nods, slowly kneels, and holds out a tentative hand. Brienne expects Jaime to scream as the botchling comes at him, teeth bared, but the creature is docile and allows itself to be picked up. Jaime holds the botchling out in front of him at arm’s length, and Brienne can’t blame him for not bringing it closer.

“Hold it closer,” Melisandre commands.

_ Well, so much for that. _

Jaime seems to be looking past the botchling’s hideous outer visage.

“Good,” Melisandre nods, “Now, for the incantation. Repeat after me.

Melisandre closes her eyes and extends her arms once more, “By the powers of earth and sky.”

Jaime takes a deep breath and repeats after her.

“By the world that was to be your home.”

“By the world that was to be your home,” Jaime repeats.

“Forgive me, you who came but who I did not embrace.”

“Forgive me, you who came but who I did not embrace.”

“I name thee--say his name--embrace thee as my son.”

Jaime’s voice is breaking when he speaks, but he manages to get the words out, “I name thee Joffrey and embrace thee as my son.”

The candles in the circle are snuffed out simultaneously, plunging them into darkness. Melisandre whispers a series of words Brienne doesn’t comprehend, and the candles flicker back to life.

In Jaime’s arms, the botchling is limp and lifeless. Jaime, staring at it, looks pale as a ghost.

“What do we do now?” Tyrion whispers.

“We bury it, and we wait until dawn_ ,” _Melisandre replies.

* * *

Tyrion can’t imagine any of them will be able to fall into a peaceful slumber once the botchling is interred in the earth. The grave is shallow enough that it only takes Sandor a few strikes of the shovel to make a plot deep enough.

Jaime’s pinched expression tells Tyrion that he mislikes the idea of dropping the botchling’s body into the ground with nothing shrouding it. He glances around futilely for something suitable until Sansa slips her shawl off her shoulders and holds it out.

The gratitude in his brother’s expression makes Tyrion’s heart ache.

“Thank you, Lady Sansa,” Jaime whispers, “It’s better than...well, it’s _ something, _at least.”

“It’s very soft,” Sansa answers, “I knit it myself.”

When the botchling is wrapped, Jaime tucks the bib into the folds of the shawl and lowers it into the plot. Everyone watches silently with Sandor finishes covering the hole with earth. Jaime excuses himself, fleeing into the house, and of course Brienne follows him. When Melisandre departs as well, it’s only Tyrion and Sansa alone in the yard.

“Dawn,” Sansa says.

“Dawn,” Tyrion repeats.

She glances at him, then back to the freshly-tilled earth. “Do you intend to wait?”

“Perhaps.”

“Will you want for company, or would you rather be alone?”

“I rarely want to be alone.” It’s why he so often chose _ any _ company over the quality of the company. “If it wouldn’t burden you, Lady Sansa.”

Sansa smiles, “It wouldn’t be a burden. I’ll fetch us something warm to drink.”

Tyrion nods before sliding to the ground, legs sprawled before him and back resting against the stone of the house. Sansa returns some time later carrying a tea tray atop a folded blanket. She places the tray on the ground beside them before settling next to Tyrion.

“How are you faring?” Sansa whispers, even though there’s no need for silence.

“Better for your company.”

She settles the blanket across their laps and pours the tea. The warmth is a pleasant ward against the chill of the evening and its events. They speak little, but once the tea is through and the tray put aside, she leans into Tyrion and falls asleep. The scene is sweet, much sweeter than Tyrion deserves. _ I hope Jaime is finding similar respite. _

Tyrion doesn’t recall falling into slumber, but near dawn, he feels the barest touch of a hand on the crown of his head. Even before opening his eyes, he can tell the sun is rising. At first, he thinks it’s Sansa trying to wake him, but he hasn’t felt her stir beside him. Tyrion opens his eyes to find the ghostly visage of his mother kneeling beside him, semi-translucent skirts brushing the cobblestones.

Joanna is smiling softly as she retracts her hand. Tyrion raises his hand to reach for her, but his mother shakes her head.

“Mother.”

She turns to the small plot where Joffrey is buried, ghostly fingers touching the dirt but not disrupting it. After a moment, a spectral figure rises from the ground. It has the shape of the botchling, but is glowing white in the early morning light. Joanna picks it up, holding it just as Jaime had the night before.

“Mother,” Tyrion repeats.

Joanna smiles once more, eyes drifting to Sansa, who hasn’t stirred even an inch. Tyrion swears he sees approval in his mother’s expression. At the very least, he sees peace.

“We’ll be fine,” he whispers, “Jaime and I both.”

His mother cradles Joffrey to her bosom and fades away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise some non-grief stricken sexytimes in the epilogue.


End file.
